llllllllllllllllllllllnniiniiiiMit  |  j 

gift  of      Ann  Corcoran 


i  *  1 1 1 1 1  ■  i  ■ .  t ........... .- 


The  Old  Corner  Book 

Store,  Inc. 
Boston,       -       Mass. 


THE  PROMISED  LAND 


MASHKE   AND   FETCHKE 


THE 
PROMISED   LAND 

BY    MARY    ANTIN 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 
FROM     PHOTOGRAPHS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

0W  fiitoer#tie  $re&*  Camfcrit>0e 

1912 


r 

2072  73-? 
•  > 

ft  65 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,   BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  April  iqis 


QEC  2  2  1988 


To  the  Memory  of 
JOSEPHINE   LAZARUS 

Who  lives  in  the  fulfilment 
of  her  prophecies 


CONTENTS 

Introduction xi 

I.  Within  the  Pale       ....".  1 

II.  Children  of  the  Law  .        •        .        ,29 

III.  Both  Their  Houses  .        .        ...        .        42 

IV.  Daily  Bread 60 

V.  I  Remember 79 

VI.  The  Tree  of  Knowledge    .        .        .        .111 
VII.  The  Boundaries  Stretch  .        .        .137 

VIII.  The  Exodus 163 

IX.  The  Promised  Land  .        .        .        .180 

X.  Initiation       .  206 

XI.   "My  Country"          .....      222 
XII.  Miracles 241 

XIII.  A  Child's  Paradise 252 

XIV.  Manna 264 

XV.  Tarnished  Laurels  ....      276 

XVI.  Dover  Street 286 

XVII.  The  Landlady .301 

XVIII.  The  Burning  Bush 321 

XIX.  A  Kingdom  in  the  Slums  .        .        .      337 

XX.  The  Heritage 359 

Acknowledgments 365 

Glossary     .......      367 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mashke  and  Fetchke      .       .      ..    r~.      .      .  Frontispiece 

The  Grave-Digger  of  Polotzk 24 

Heder  (Hebrew  School)  for  Boys  in  Polotzk      .    34 

The  Wood  Market,  Polotzk 52 

My  Father's  Portrait .70 

My  Grandfather's  House,  where  I  was  born  .      .     80 

The  Meat  Market,  Polotzk 98 

Sabbath  Loaves  for  Sale  (Bread  Market,  Polotzk)  124 

Winter  Scene  on  the  Dvina 144 

Union  Place  (Boston)  where  my  New  Home  waited 

for  Me 184 

twoscore  of  my  fellow-cltizens  —  public  school, 

Chelsea 230 

Wheeler    Street,   in    the  Lower  South  End   of 

Boston 264 

Harrison  Avenue  is  the  Heart  of  the  South  End 

Ghetto 288 

I  liked  to  stand  and    look   down   on   the  Dim 

Tangle  of  Railroad  Tracks  below  .  .  .  298 
The  Natural  History  Club  had  Frequent  Field 

Excursions    .      . 328 


x  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Bates  Hall,  where  I  spent  my  Longest  Hours  in 

the  Library 342 

The  Famous  Study,   that  was  fit  to  have  been 

preserved  as  a  Shrine 346 

The  Tide  had  rushed  in,  stealing  away  our  Sea- 
weed Cushions 


INTRODUCTION 

I  was  born,  I  have  lived,  and  I  have  been  made  over. 
Is  it  not  time  to  write  my  life's  story?  I  am  just  as  much 
out  of  the  way  as  if  I  were  dead,  for  I  am  absolutely 
other  than  the  person  whose  story  I  have  to  tell.  Phys- 
ical continuity  with  my  earlier  self  is  no  disadvantage. 
I  could  speak  in  the  third  person  and  not  feel  that  I  was 
masquerading.  I  can  analyze  my  subject,  I  can  reveal 
everything;  for  she,  and  not  /,  is  my  real  heroine. 
My  life  I  have  still  to  live;  her  life  ended  when  mine 
began. 

A  generation  is  sometimes  a  more  satisfactory  unit 
for  the  study  of  humanity  than  a  lifetime;  and  spirit- 
ual generations  are  as  easy  to  demark  as  physical  ones. 
Now  I  am  the  spiritual  offspring  of  the  marriage  within 
my  conscious  experience  of  the  Past  and  the  Present. 
My  second  birth  was  no  less  a  birth  because  there  was 
no  distinct  incarnation.  Surely  it  has  happened  before 
that  one  body  served  more  than  one  spiritual  organiza- 
tion. Nor  am  I  disowning  my  father  and  mother  of  the 
flesh,  for  they  were  also  partners  in  the  generation  of 
my  second  self;  copartners  with  my  entire  line  of  an- 
cestors. They  gave  me  body,  so  that  I  have  eyes  like 
my  father's  and  hair  like  my  mother's.  The  spirit  also 
they  gave  me,  so  that  I  reason  like  my  father  and  en- 
dure like  my  mother.  But  did  they  set  me  down  in  a 
sheltered  garden,  where  the  sun  should  warm  me,  and 
no  winter  should  hurt,  while  they  fed  me  from  their 
hands?   No;  they  early  let  me  run  in  the  fields  —  per- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

haps  because  I  would  not  be  held  —  and  eat  of  the  wild 
fruits  and  drink  of  the  dew.  Did  they  teach  me  from 
books,  and  tell  me  what  to  believe?  I  soon  chose  my 
own  books,  and  built  me  a  world  of  my  own. 

In  these  discriminations  /  emerged,  a  new  being,  some- 
thing that  had  not  been  before.  And  when  I  discovered 
my  own  friends,  and  ran  home  with  them  to  convert  my 
parents  to  a  belief  in  their  excellence,  did  I  not  begin  to 
make  my  father  and  mother,  as  truly  as  they  had  ever 
made  me?  Did  I  not  become  the  parent  and  they  the 
children,  in  those  relations  of  teacher  and  learner?  And 
so  I  can  say  that  there  has  been  more  than  one  birth  of 
myself,  and  I  can  regard  my  earlier  self  as  a  separate 
being,  and  make  it  a  subject  of  study. 

A  proper  autobiography  is  a  death-bed  confession.  A 
true  man  finds  so  much  work  to  do  that  he  has  no  time 
to  contemplate  his  yesterdays;  for  to-day  and  to-morrow 
are  here,  with  their  impatient  tasks.  The  world  is  so 
busy,  too,  that  it  cannot  afford  to  study  any  man's  un- 
finished work;  for  the  end  may  prove  it  a  failure,  and  the 
world  needs  masterpieces.  Still  there  are  circumstances 
by  which  a  man  is  justified  in  pausing  in  the  middle  of  his 
life  to  contemplate  the  years  already  passed.  One  who 
has  completed  early  in  life  a  distinct  task  may  stop  to 
give  an  account  of  it.  One  who  has  encountered  unusual 
adventures  under  vanishing  conditions  may  pause  to 
describe  them  before  passing  into  the  stable  world.  And 
perhaps  he  also  might  be  given  an  early  hearing,  who, 
without  having  ventured  out  of  the  familiar  paths, 
without  having  achieved  any  signal  triumph,  has  lived 
his  simple  life  so  intensely,  so  thoughtfully,  as  to  have 
discovered  in  his  own  experience  an  interpretation  of 
the  universal  life.  > 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

I  am  not  yet  thirty,  counting  in  years,  and  I  am  writ- 
ing my  life  history.  Under  which  of  the  above  categories 
do  I  find  my  justification?  I  have  not  accomplished 
anything,  I  have  not  discovered  anything,  not  even  by 
accident,  as  Columbus  discovered  America.  My  life  has 
been  unusual,  but  by  no  means  unique.  And  this  is  the 
very  core  of  the  matter.  It  is  because  ^  understand  my 
history,  in  its  larger  outlines,  to  be  typical  of  many, 
that  I  consider  it  worth  recording.  My  life  is  a  concrete 
illustration  of  a  multitude  of  statistical  facts.  Although 
I  have  written  a  genuine  personal  memoir,  I  believe  that 
its  chief  interest  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  is  illustrative  of 
scores  of  unwritten  lives.  I  am  only  one  of  many  whose 
fate  it  has  been  to  live  a  page  of  modern  history.  We 
are  the  strands  of  the  cable  that  binds  the  Old  World 
to  the  New.  As  the  ships  that  brought  us  link  the  shores 
of  Europe  and  America,  so  our  lives  span  the  bitter  sea 
of  racial  differences  and  misunderstandings.  Before  we 
came,  the  New  World  knew  not  the  Old;  but  since  we 
have  begun  to  come,  the  Young  World  has  taken  the  Old 
by  the  hand,  and  the  two  are  learning  to  march  side  by 
side,  seeking  a  common  destiny. 

Perhaps  I  have  taken  needless  trouble  to  furnish  an 
excuse  for  my  autobiography.  My  age  alone,  my  true 
age,  would  be  reason  enough  for  my  writing.  I  began 
life  in  the  Middle  Ages,  as  I  shall  prove,  and  here  am 
I  still,  your  contemporary  in  the  twentieth  century, 
thrilling  with  your  latest  thought. 

Had  I  no  better  excuse  for  writing,  I  still  might  be 
driven  to  it  by  my  private  needs.  It  is  in  one  sense  a 
matter  of  my  personal  salvation.  I  was  at  a  most  im- 
pressionable age  when  I  was  transplanted  to  the  new 
soil.  I  was  in  that  period  when  even  normal  children, 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

undisturbed  in  their  customary  environment,  begin  to 
explore  their  own  hearts,  and  endeavor  to  account  for 
themselves  and  their  world.  And  my  zest  for  self-ex- 
ploration seems  not  to  have  been  distracted  by  the  ne- 
cessity of  exploring  a  new  outer  universe.  I  embarked 
on  a  double  voyage  of  discovery,  and  an  exciting  life  it 
was !  I  took  note  of  everything.  I  could  no  more  keep 
my  mind  from  the  shifting,  changing  landscape  than 
an  infant  can  keep  his  eyes  from  the  shining  candle 
moved  across  his  field  of  vision.  Thus  everything  im- 
pressed itself  on  my  memory,  and  with  double  associa- 
tions; for  I  was  constantly  referring  my  new  world  to  the 
old  for  comparison,  and  the  old  to  the  new  for  elucida- 
tion. I  became  a  student  and  philosopher  by  force  of 
circumstances. 

Had  I  been  brought  to  America  a  few  years  earlier, 
I  might  have  written  that  in  such  and  such  a  year  my 
father  emigrated,  just  as  I  would  state  what  he  did  for 
a  living,  as  a  matter  of  family  history.  Happening  when 
it  did,  the  emigration  became  of  the  most  vital  import- 
ance to  me  personally.  All  the  processes  of  uprooting, 
transportation,  replanting,  acclimatization,  and  develop- 
ment took  place  in  my  own  soul.  I  felt  the  pang,  the 
fear,  the  wonder,  and  the  joy  of  it.  I  can  never  forget, 
for  I  bear  the  scars.  But  I  want  to  forget  —  sometimes 
I  long  to  forget.  I  think  I  have  thoroughly  assimilated 
my  past  —  I  have  done  its  bidding  —  I  want  now  to  be 
of  to-day.  It  is  painful  to  be  consciously  of  two  worlds. 
The  Wandering  Jew  in  me  seeks  forgetfulness.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  live  on  and  on,  if  only  I  do  not  have  to  remem- 
ber too  much.  A  long  past  vividly  remembered  is  like  a 
heavy  garment  that  clings  to  your  limbs  when  you  would 
run.  And  I  have  thought  of  a  charm  that  should  release 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

me  from  the  folds  of  my  clinging  past.  I  take  the  hint 
from  the  Ancient  Mariner,  who  told  his  tale  in  order  to 
be  rid  of  it.  I,  too,  will  tell  my  tale,  for  once,  and  never 
hark  back  any  more.  I  will  write  a  bold  "Finis "  at  the 
end,  and  shut  the  book  with  a  bang! 


THE  PROMISED  LAND 

CHAPTER  I 

WITHIN   THE    PALE 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  the  world  was  divided  into 
two  parts;  namely,  Polotzk,  the  place  where  I  lived,  and 
a  strange  land  called  Russia.  All  the  little  girls  I  knew 
lived  in  Polotzk,  with  their  fathers  and  mothers  and 
friends.  Russia  was  the  place  where  one's  father  went  on 
business.  It  was  so  far  off,  and  so  many  bad  things  hap- 
pened there,  that  one's  mother  and  grandmother  and 
grown-up  aunts  cried  at  the  railroad  station,  and  one 
was  expected  to  be  sad  and  quiet  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
when  the  father  departed  for  Russia. 

After  a  while  there  came  to  my  knowledge  the  exist- 
ence of  another  division,  a  region  intermediate  between 
Polotzk  and  Russia.  It  seemed  there  was  a  place  called 
Vitebsk,  and  one  called  Vilna,  and  Riga,  and  some 
others.  From  those  places  came  photographs  of  uncles 
and  cousins  one  had  never  seen,  and  letters,  and  some- 
times the  uncles  themselves.  These  uncles  were  just  like 
people  in  Polotzk;  the  people  in  Russia,  one  understood, 
were  very  different.  In  answer  to  one's  questions,  the 
visiting  uncles  said  all  sorts  of  silly  things,  to  make 
everybody  laugh;  and  so  one  never  found  out  why 
Vitebsk  and  Vilna,  since  they  were  not  Polotzk,  were 
not  as  sad  as  Russia.  Mother  hardly  cried  at  all  when 
the  uncles  went  away. 

One  time,  when  I  was  about  eight  years  old,  one  of  my 


2  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

grown-up  cousins  went  to  Vitebsk.  Everybody  went  to 
see  her  off,  but  I  did  n't.  I  went  with  her.  I  was  put  on 
the  train,  with  my  best  dress  tied  up  in  a  bandana,  and 
I  stayed  on  the  train  for  hours  and  hours,  and  came 
to  Vitebsk.  I  could  not  tell,  as  we  rushed  along,  where 
the  end  of  Polotzk  was.  There  were  a  great  many  places 
on  the  way,  with  strange  names,  but  it  was  very  plain 
when  we  got  to  Vitebsk. 

The  railroad  station  was  a  big  place,  much  bigger  than 
the  one  in  Polotzk.  Several  trains  came  in  at  once, 
instead  of  only  one.  There  was  an  immense  buffet,  with 
fruits  and  confections,  and  a  place  where  books  were 
sold.  My  cousin  never  let  go  my  hand,  on  account  of  the 
crowd.  Then  we  rode  in  a  cab  for  ever  so  long,  and  I 
saw  the  most  beautiful  streets  and  shops  and  houses, 
much  bigger  and  finer  than  any  in  Polotzk. 

We  remained  in  Vitebsk  several  days,  and  I  saw  many 
wonderful  things,  but  what  gave  me  my  one  great  sur- 
prise was  something  that  was  n't  new  at  all.  It  was  the 
river  —  the  river  Dvina.  Now  the  Dvina  is  in  Polotzk. 
All  my  life  I  had  seen  the  Dvina.  How,  then,  could  the 
Dvina  be  in  Vitebsk?  My  cousin  and  I  had  come  on  the 
train,  but  everybody  knew  that  a  train  could  go  every- 
where, even  to  Russia.  It  became  clear  to  me  that  the 
Dvina  went  on  and  on,  like  a  railroad  track,  whereas  I 
had  always  supposed  that  it  stopped  where  Polotzk 
stopped.  I  had  never  seen  the  end  of  Polotzk;  I  meant 
to,  when  I  was  bigger.  But  how  could  there  be  an  end  to 
Polotzk  now?  Polotzk  was  everything  on  both  sides  of 
the  Dvina,  as  all  my  life  I  had  known;  and  the  Dvina, 
it  now  turned  out,  never  broke  off  at  all.  It  was  very 
curious  that  the  Dvina  should  remain  the  same,  while 
Polotzk  changed  into  Vitebsk! 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  3 

The  mystery  of  this  transmutation  led  to  much  fruit- 
ful thinking.  The  boundary  between  Polotzk  and  the 
rest  of  the  world  was  not,  as  I  had  supposed,  a  physical 
barrier,  like  the  fence  which  divided  our  garden  from 
the  street.  The  world  went  like  this  now:  Polotzk — 
more  Polotzk  —  more  Polotzk  —  Vitebsk !  And  Vitebsk 
was  not  so  different,  only  bigger  and  brighter  and  more 
crowded.  And  Vitebsk  was  not  the  end.  The  Dvina, 
and  the  railroad,  went  on  beyond  Vitebsk,  —  went  on  to 
Russia.  Then  was  Russia  more  Polotzk?  Was  here  also 
no  dividing  fence?  How  I  wanted  to  see  Russia!  But 
very  few  people  went  there.  When  people  went  to 
Russia  it  was  a  sign  of  trouble;  either  they  could  not 
make  a  living  at  home,  or  they  were  drafted  for  the 
army,  or  they  had  a  lawsuit.  No,  nobody  went  to  Rus- 
sia for  pleasure.  Why,  in  Russia  lived  the  Czar,  and  a 
great  many  cruel  people;  and  in  Russia  were  the  dread- 
ful prisons  from  which  people  never  came  back. 

Polotzk  and  Vitebsk  were  now  bound  together  by  the 
continuity  of  the  earth,  but  between  them  and  Russia  a 
formidable  barrier  still  interposed.  I  learned,  as  I  grew 
older,  that  much  as  Polotzk  disliked  to  go  to  Russia, 
even  more  did  Russia  object  to  letting  Polotzk  come. 
People  from  Polotzk  were  sometimes  turned  back  before 
they  had  finished  their  business,  and  often  they  were 
cruelly  treated  on  the  way.  It  seemed  there  were  certain 
places  in  Russia  —  St.  Petersburg,  and  Moscow,  and 
Kiev  —  where  my  father  or  my  uncle  or  my  neighbor 
must  never  come  at  all,  no  matter  what  important 
things  invited  them.  The  police  would  seize  them  and 
send  them  back  to  Polotzk,  like  wicked  criminals, 
although  they  had  never  done  any  wrong. 

It  was  strange  enough  that  my  relatives  should  be 


4  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

treated  like  this,  but  at  least  there  was  this  excuse  for 
sending  them  back  to  Polotzk,  that  they  belonged  there. 
For  what  reason  were  people  driven  out  of  St.  Peters- 
burg and  Moscow  who  had  their  homes  in  those  cities, 
and  had  no  other  place  to  go  to?  Ever  so  many  people, 
men  and  women  and  even  children,  came  to  Polotzk, 
where  they  had  no  friends,  with  stories  of  cruel  treat- 
ment in  Russia;  and  although  they  were  nobody's  rela- 
tives, they  were  taken  in,  and  helped,  and  set  up  in 
business,  like  unfortunates  after  a  fire. 

It  was  very  strange  that  the  Czar  and  the  police 
should  want  all  Russia  for  themselves.  It  was  a  very  big 
country;  it  took  many  days  for  a  letter  to  reach  one's 
father  in  Russia.  Why  might  not  everybody  be  there 
who  wanted  to? 

I  do  not  know  when  I  became  old  enough  to  understand. 
The  truth  was  borne  in  on  me  a  dozen  times  a  day,  from 
the  time  I  began  to  distinguish  words  from  empty  noises. 
My  grandmother  told  me  about  it,  when  she  put  me  to 
bed  at  night.  My  parents  told  me  about  it,  when  they 
gave  me  presents  on  holidays.  My  playmates  told  me, 
when  they  drew  me  back  into  a  corner  of  the  gateway,  to 
let  a  policeman  pass.  Vanka,  the  little  white-haired  boy, 
told  me  all  about  it,  when  he  ran  out  of  his  mother's 
laundry  on  purpose  to  throw  mud  after  me  when  I  hap- 
pened to  pass.  I  heard  about  it  during  prayers,  and  when 
women  quarrelled  in  the  market  place;  and  sometimes, 
waking  in  the  night,  I  heard  my  parents  whisper  it  in  the 
dark.  There  was  no  time  in  my  life  when  I  did  not  hear 
and  see  and  feel  the  truth  —  the  reason  why  Polotzk 
was  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  Russia.  It  was  the  first 
lesson  a  little  girl  in  Polotzk  had  to  learn.  But  for 
a  long  while  I  did  not  understand.  Then  there  came  a 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  5 

time  when  I  knew  that  Polotzk  and  Vitebsk  and  Vilna 
and  some  other  places  were  grouped  together  as  the 
"Pale  of  Settlement,"  and  within  this  area  the  Czar 
commanded  me  to  stay,  with  my  father  and  mother 
and  friends,  and  all  other  people  like  us.  We  must  not 
be  found  outside  the  Pale,  because  we  were  Jews. 

So  there  was  a  fence  around  Polotzk,  after  all.  The 
world  was  divided  into  Jews  and  Gentiles.  This  know- 
ledge came  so  gradually  that  it  could  not  shock  me.  It 
trickled  into  my  consciousness  drop  by  drop.  By  the  time 
I  fully  understood  that  I  was  a  prisoner,  the  shackles 
had  grown  familiar  to  my  flesh. 

The  first  time  Vanka  threw  mud  at  me,  I  ran  home 
and  complained  to  my  mother,  who  brushed  off  my  dress 
and  said,  quite  resignedly,  "How  can  I  help  you,  my 
poor  child?  Vanka  is  a  Gentile.  The  Gentiles  do  as  they 
like  with  us  Jews."  The  next  time  Vanka  abused  me,  I 
did  not  cry,  but  ran  for  shelter,  saying  to  myself,  "Vanka 
is  a  Gentile."  The  third  time,  when  Vanka  spat  on  me,  I 
wiped  my  face  and  thought  nothing  at  all.  I  accepted 
ill-usage  from  the  Gentiles  as  one  accepts  the  weather. 
The  world  was  made  in  a  certain  way,  and  I  had  to  live 
in  it. 

Not  quite  all  the  Gentiles  were  like  Vanka.  Next  door 
to  us  lived  a  Gentile  family  which  was  very  friendly. 
There  was  a  girl  as  big  as  I,  who  never  called  me  names, 
and  gave  me  flowers  from  her  father's  garden.  And  there 
were  the  Parphens,  of  whom  my  grandfather  rented  his 
store.  They  treated  us  as  if  we  were  not  Jews  at  all.  On 
our  festival  days  they  visited  our  house  and  brought  us 
presents,  carefully  choosing  such  things  as  Jewish  child- 
ren might  accept;  and  they  liked  to  have  everything 
explained  to  them,  about  the  wine  and  the  fruit  and  the 


6  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

candles,  and  they  even  tried  to  say  the  appropriate 
greetings  and  blessings  in  Hebrew.  My  father  used  to  say 
that  if  all  the  Russians  were  like  the  Parphens,  there 
would  be  no  trouble  between  Gentiles  and  Jews;  and 
Fedora  Pavlovna,  the  landlady,  would  reply  that  the 
Russian  people  were  not  to  blame.  It  was  the  priests,  she 
said,  who  taught  the  people  to  hate  the  Jews.  Of  course 
she  knew  best,  as  she  was  a  very  pious  Christian.  She 
never  passed  a  church  without  crossing  herself. 

The  Gentiles  were  always  crossing  themselves;  when 
they  went  into  a  church,  and  when  they  came  out,  when 
they  met  a  priest,  or  passed  an  image  in  the  street.  The 
dirty  beggars  on  the  church  steps  never  stopped  crossing 
themselves;  and  even  when  they  stood  on  the  corner  of  a 
Jewish  street,  and  received  alms  from  Jewish  people, 
they  crossed  themselves  and  mumbled  Christian  prayers. 
In  every  Gentile  house  there  was  what  they  called  an 
"icon,"  which  was  an  image  or  picture  of  the  Christian 
god,  hung  up  in  a  corner,  with  a  light  always  burning 
before  it.  In  front  of  the  icon  the  Gentiles  said  their 
prayers,  on  their  knees,  crossing  themselves  all  the  time. 

I  tried  not  to  look  in  the  corner  where  the  icon  was, 
when  I  came  into  a  Gentile  house.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
cross.  Everybody  was,  in  Polotzk  —  all  the  Jews,  I 
mean.  For  it  was  the  cross  that  made  the  priests,  and 
the  priests  made  our  troubles,  as  even  some  Christians 
admitted.  The  Gentiles  said  that  we  had  killed  their 
God,  which  was  absurd,  as  they  never  had  a  God  — 
nothing  but  images.  Besides,  what  they  accused  us  of 
had  happened  so  long  ago;  the  Gentiles  themselves 
said  it  was  long  ago.  Everybody  had  been  dead  for  ages 
who  could  have  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Yet  they 
put  up  crosses  everywhere,  and  wore  them  on  their 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  7 

necks,  on  purpose  to  remind  themselves  of  these  false 
things;  and  they  considered  it  pious  to  hate  and  abuse 
us,  insisting  that  we  had  killed  their  God.  To  worship 
the  cross  and  to  torment  a  Jew  was  the  same  thing  to 
them.  That  is  why  we  feared  the  cross. 

Another  thing  the  Gentiles  said  about  us  was  that  we 
used  the  blood  of  murdered  Christian  children  at  the 
Passover  festival.  Of  course  that  was  a  wicked  lie.  It 
made  me  sick  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  I  knew  every- 
thing that  was  done  for  Passover,  from  the  time  I  was  a 
very  little  girl.  The  house  was  made  clean  and  shining 
and  holy,  even  in  the  corners  where  nobody  ever  looked. 
Vessels  and  dishes  that  were  used  all  the  year  round  were 
put  away  in  the  garret,  and  special  vessels  were  brought 
out  for  the  Passover  week.  I  used  to  help  unpack  the 
new  dishes,  and  find  my  own  blue  mug.  When  the  fresh 
curtains  were  put  up,  and  the  white  floors  were  un- 
covered, and  everybody  in  the  house  put  on  new  clothes, 
and  I  sat  down  to  the  feast  in  my  new  dress,  I  felt  clean 
inside  and  out.  And  when  I  asked  the  Four  Questions, 
about  the  unleavened  bread  and  the  bitter  herbs  and  the 
other  things,  and  the  family,  reading  from  their  books, 
answered  me,  did  I  not  know  all  about  Passover,  and 
what  was  on  the  table,  and  why?  It  was  wicked  of  the 
Gentiles  to  tell  lies  about  us.  The  youngest  child  in  the 
house  knew  how  Passover  was  kept. 

The  Passover  season,  when  we  celebrated  our  deliver- 
ance from  the  land  of  Egypt,  and  felt  so  glad  and  thank- 
ful, as  if  it  had  only  just  happened,  was  the  time  our 
Gentile  neighbors  chose  to  remind  us  that  Russia  was 
another  Egypt.  That  is  what  I  heard  people  say,  and 
it  was  true.  It  was  not  so  bad  in  Polotzk,  within  the 
Pale;  but  in  Russian  cities,  and  even  more  in  the  coun- 


8  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

try  districts,  where  Jewish  families  lived  scattered,  by 
special  permission  of  the  police,  who  were  always 
changing  their  minds  about  letting  them  stay,  the 
Gentiles  made  the  Passover  a  time  of  horror  for  the 
Jews.  Somebody  would  start  up  that  lie  about  murder- 
ing Christian  children,  and  the  stupid  peasants  would 
get  mad  about  it,  and  fill  themselves  with  vodka,  and  set 
out  to  kill  the  Jews.  They  attacked  them  with  knives 
and  clubs  and  scythes  and  axes,  killed  them  or  tortured 
them,  and  burned  their  houses.  This  was  called  a 
"pogrom."  Jews  who  escaped  the  pogroms  came  to 
Polotzk  with  wounds  on  them,  and  horrible,  horrible 
stories,  of  little  babies  torn  limb  from  limb  before  their 
mothers'  eyes.  Only  to  hear  these  things  made  one  sob 
and  sob  and  choke  with  pain.  People  who  saw  such 
things  never  smiled  any  more,  no  matter  how  long  they 
lived;  and  sometimes  their  hair  turned  white  in  a  day, 
and  some  people  became  insane  on  the  spot. 

Often  we  heard  that  the  pogrom  was  led  by  a  priest 
carrying  a  cross  before  the  mob.  Our  enemies  always 
held  up  the  cross  as  the  excuse  of  their  cruelty  to  us.  I 
never  was  in  an  actual  pogrom,  but  there  were  times 
when  it  threatened  us,  even  in  Polotzk;  and  in  all  my 
fearful  imaginings,  as  I  hid  in  dark  corners,  thinking  of 
the  horrible  things  the  Gentiles  were  going  to  do  to  me, 
I  saw  the  cross,  the  cruel  cross. 

I  remember  a  time  when  I  thought  a  pogrom  had 
broken  out  in  our  street,  and  I  wonder  that  I  did  not 
die  of  fear.  It  was  some  Christian  holiday,  and  we  had 
been  warned  by  the  police  to  keep  indoors.  Gates  were 
locked;  shutters  were  barred.  If  a  child  cried,  the  nurse 
threatened  to  give  it  to  the  priest,  who  would  soon  be 
passing  by.  Fearful  and  yet  curious,  we  looked  through 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  9 

the  cracks  in  the  shutters.  We  saw  a  procession  of 
peasants  and  townspeople,  led  by  a  number  of  priests, 
carrying  crosses  and  banners  and  images.  In  the  place 
of  honor  was  carried  a  casket,  containing  a  relic  from 
the  monastery  in  the  outskirts  of  Polotzk.  Once  a  year 
the  Gentiles  paraded  with  this  relic,  and  on  that  occa- 
sion the  streets  were  considered  too  holy  for  Jews  to  be 
about;  and  we  lived  in  fear  till  the  end  of  the  day,  know- 
ing that  the  least  disturbance  might  start  a  riot,  and  a 
riot  lead  to  a  pogrom. 

On  the  day  when  I  saw  the  procession  through  a 
crack  in  the  shutter,  there  were  soldiers  and  police  in 
the  street.  This  was  as  usual,  but  I  did  not  know  it.  I 
asked  the  nurse,  who  was  pressing  to  the  crack  over 
my  head,  what  the  soldiers  were  for.  Thoughtlessly  she 
answered  me,  "In  case  of  a  pogrom."  Yes,  there  were 
the  crosses  and  the  priests  and  the  mob.  The  church 
bells  were  pealing  their  loudest.  Everything  was  ready. 
The  Gentiles  were  going  to  tear  me  in  pieces,  with  axes 
and  knives  and  ropes.  They  were  going  to  burn  me  alive. 
The  cross  —  the  cross !  What  would  they  do  to  me  first? 

There  was  one  thing  the  Gentiles  might  do  to  me 
worse  than  burning  or  rending.  It  was  what  was  done  to 
unprotected  Jewish  children  who  fell  into  the  hands  of 
priests  or  nuns.  They  might  baptize  me.  That  would  be 
worse  than  death  by  torture.  Rather  would  I  drown  in 
the  Dvina  than  a  drop  of  the  baptismal  water  should 
touch  my  forehead.  To  be  forced  to  kneel  before  the 
hideous  images,  to  kiss  the  cross, —  sooner  would  I  rush 
out  to  the  mob  that  was  passing,  and  let  them  tear  my 
vitals  out.  To  forswear  the  One  God,  to  bow  before 
idols,  —  rather  would  I  be  seized  with  the  plague,  and 
be  eaten  up  by  vermin.  I  was  only  a  little  girl,  and  not 


10  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

very  brave;  little  pains  made  me  ill,  and  I  cried.  But 
there  was  no  pain  that  I  would  not  bear  —  no,  none  — 
rather  than  submit  to  baptism. 

Every  Jewish  child  had  that  feeling.  There  were 
stories  by  the  dozen  of  Jewish  boys  who  were  kidnapped 
by  the  Czar's  agents  and  brought  up  in  Gentile  families, 
till  they  were  old  enough  to  enter  the  army,  where  they 
served  till  forty  years  of  age;  and  all  those  years  the 
priests  tried,  by  bribes  and  daily  tortures,  to  force  them 
to  accept  baptism,  but  in  vain.  This  was  in  the  time  of 
Nicholas  I,  but  men  who  had  been  through  this  service 
were  no  older  than  my  grandfather,  when  I  was  a  little 
girl;  and  they  told  their  experiences  with  their  own  lips, 
and  one  knew  it  was  true,  and  it  broke  one's  heart  with 
pain  and  pride. 

Some  of  these  soldiers  of  Nicholas,  as  they  were 
called,  were  taken  as  little  boys  of  seven  or  eight  — 
snatched  from  their  mothers'  laps.  They  were  carried  to 
distant  villages,  where  their  friends  could  never  trace 
them,  and  turned  over  to  some  dirty,  brutal  peasant,  who 
used  them  like  slaves  and  kept  them  with  the  pigs.  No 
two  were  ever  left  together;  and  they  were  given  false 
names,  so  that  they  were  entirely  cut  off  from  their  own 
world.  And  then  the  lonely  child  was  turned  over  to  the 
priests,  and  he  was  flogged  and  starved  and  terrified  — 
a  little  helpless  boy  who  cried  for  his  mother;  but  still  he 
refused  to  be  baptized.  The  priests  promised  him  good 
things  to  eat,  and  fine  clothes,  and  freedom  from  labor; 
but  the  boy  turned  away,  and  said  his  prayers  secretly 
—  the  Hebrew  prayers. 

As  he  grew  older,  severer  tortures  were  invented  for 
him;  still  he  refused  baptism.  By  this  time  he  had  for- 
gotten his  mother's  face,  and  of  his  prayers  perhaps  only 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  n 

the  "Shema"  remained  in  his  memory;  but  he  was  a 
Jew,  and  nothing  would  make  him  change.  After  he 
entered  the  army,  he  was  bribed  with  promises  of  pro- 
motions and  honors.  He  remained  a  private,  and  endured 
the  cruellest  discipline.  When  he  was  discharged,  at  the 
age  of  forty,  he  was  a  broken  man,  without  a  home,  with- 
out a  clue  to  his  origin,  and  he  spent  the  rest  of  his  life 
wandering  among  Jewish  settlements,  searching  for  his 
family;  hiding  the  scars  of  torture  under  his  rags,  beg- 
ging his  way  from  door  to  door.  If  he  were  one  who 
had  broken  down  under  the  cruel  torments,  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  baptized,  for  the  sake  of  a  respite,  the 
Church  never  let  him  go  again,  no  matter  how  loudly 
he  protested  that  he  was  still  a  Jew.  If  he  was  caught 
practicing  Jewish  rites,  he  was  subjected  to  the  severest 
punishment. 

My  father  knew  of  one  who  was  taken  as  a  small  boy, 
who  never  yielded  to  the  priests  under  the  most  hideous 
tortures.  As  he  was  a  very  bright  boy,  the  priests  were 
particularly  eager  to  convert  him.  They  tried  him  with 
bribes  that  would  appeal  to  his  ambition.  They  pro- 
mised to  make  a  great  man  of  him  —  a  general,  a  noble. 
The  boy  turned  away  and  said  his  prayers.  Then  they 
tortured  him,  and  threw  him  into  a  cell;  and  when  he 
lay  asleep  from  exhaustion,  the  priest  came  and  bap- 
tized him.  When  he  awoke,  they  told  him  he  was  a 
Christian,  and  brought  him  the  crucifix  to  kiss.  He  pro- 
tested, threw  the  crucifix  from  him,  but  they  held  him 
to  it  that  he  was  a  baptized  Jew,  and  belonged  to  the 
Church;  and  the  rest  of  his  life  he  spent  between  the 
prison  and  the  hospital,  always  clinging  to  his  faith,  say- 
ing the  Hebrew  prayers  in  defiance  of  his  tormentors, 
and  paying  for  it  with  his  flesh. 


12  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

There  were  men  in  Polotzk  whose  faces  made  you  old 
in  a  minute.  They  had  served  Nicholas  I,  and  come 
back  unbaptized.  The  white  church  in  the  square  — 
how  did  it  look  to  them?  I  knew.  I  cursed  the  church 
in  my  heart  every  time  I  had  to  pass  it;  and  I  was  afraid 
—  afraid. 

On  market  days,  when  the  peasants  came  to  church, 
and  the  bells  kept  ringing  by  the  hour,  my  heart  was 
heavy  in  me,  and  I  could  find  no  rest.  Even  in  my  fa- 
ther's house  I  did  not  feel  safe.  The  church  bell  boomed 
over  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  calling,  calling,  calling. 
I  closed  my  eyes,  and  saw  the  people  passing  into  the 
church :  peasant  women  with  bright  embroidered  aprons 
and  glass  beads;  barefoot  little  girls  with  colored  ker- 
chiefs on  their  heads;  boys  with  caps  pulled  too  far  down 
over  their  flaxen  hair;  rough  men  with  plaited  bast  san- 
dals, and  a  rope  around  the  waist,  —  crowds  of  them, 
moving  slowly  up  the  steps,  crossing  themselves  again 
and  again,  till  they  were  swallowed  by  the  black  door- 
way, and  only  the  beggars  were  left  squatting  on  the 
steps.  Boom,  boom  !  What  are  the  people  doing  in  the 
dark,  with  the  waxen  images  and  the  horrid  crucifixes? 
Boom,  boom,  boom  I  They  are  ringing  the  bell  for  me. 
Is  it  in  the  church  they  will  torture  me,  when  I  refuse  to 
kiss  the  cross? 

They  ought  not  to  have  told  me  those  dreadful 
stories.  They  were  long  past;  we  were  living  under  the 
blessed  "New  Regime."  Alexander  III  was  no  friend 
of  the  Jews;  still  he  did  not  order  little  boys  to  be  taken 
from  their  mothers,  to  be  made  into  soldiers  and  Christ- 
ians. Every  man  had  to  serve  in  the  army  for  four 
years,  and  a  Jewish  recruit  was  likely  to  be  treated  with 
severity,  no  matter  if  his  behavior  were  perfect;  but 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  13 

that  was  little  compared  to  the  dreadful  conditions  of 
the  old  regime. 

The  thing  that  really  mattered  was  the  necessity  of 
breaking  the  Jewish  laws  of  daily  life  while  in  the  service. 
A  soldier  often  had  to  eat  trefah  and  work  on  Sabbath. 
He  had  to  shave  his  beard  and  do  reverence  to  Christ- 
ian things.  He  could  not  attend  daily  services  at  the 
synagogue;  his  private  devotions  were  disturbed  by  the 
jeers  and  insults  of  his  coarse  Gentile  comrades.  He 
might  resort  to  all  sorts  of  tricks  and  shams,  still  he  was 
obliged  to  violate  Jewish  law.  When  he  returned  home, 
at  the  end  of  his  term  of  service,  he  could  not  rid  himself 
of  the  stigma  of  those  enforced  sins.  For  four  years  he 
had  led  the  life  of  a  Gentile. 

Piety  alone  was  enough  to  make  the  Jews  dread  mili- 
tary service,  but  there  were  other  things  that  made  it  a 
serious  burden.  Most  men  of  twenty-one  —  the  age  of 
conscription  —  were  already  married  and  had  children. 
During  their  absence  their  families  suffered,  their  busi- 
ness often  was  ruined.  At  the  end  of  their  term  they 
were  beggars.  As  beggars,  too,  they  were  sent  home  from 
their  military  post.  If  they  happened  to  have  a  good 
uniform  at  the  time  of  their  dismissal,  it  was  stripped 
from  them,  and  replaced  by  a  shabby  one.  They  re- 
ceived a  free  ticket  for  the  return  journey,  and  a  few 
kopecks  a  day  for  expenses.  In  this  fashion  they  were 
hurried  back  into  the  Pale,  like  escaped  prisoners.  The 
Czar  was  done  with  them.  If  within  a  limited  time  they 
were  found  outside  the  Pale,  they  would  be  seized  and 
sent  home  in  chains. 

There  were  certain  exceptions  to  the  rule  of  com- 
pulsory service.  The  only  son  of  a  family  was  exempt, 
and  certain  others.    In  the  physical  examination  pre- 


14  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

ceding  conscription,  many  were  rejected  on  account  of 
various  faults.  This  gave  the  people  the  idea  of  inflicting 
injuries  on  themselves,  so  as  to  produce  temporary  de- 
formities on  account  of  which  they  might  be  rejected  at 
the  examination.  Men  would  submit  to  operations  on 
their  eyes,  ears,  or  limbs,  which  caused  them  horrible 
sufferings,  in  the  hope  of  escaping  the  service.  If  the 
operation  was  successful,  the  patient  was  rejected  by 
the  examining  officers,  and  in  a  short  time  he  was  well, 
and  a  free  man.  Often,  however,  the  deformity  intended 
to  be  temporary  proved  incurable,  so  that  there  were 
many  men  in  Polotzk  blind  of  one  eye,  or  hard  of  hear- 
ing, or  lame,  as  a  result  of  these  secret  practices;  but 
these  things  were  easier  to  bear  than  the  memory  of  four 
years  in  the  Czar's  service. 

Sons  of  rich  fathers  could  escape  service  without  leav- 
ing any  marks  on  their  persons.  It  was  always  possible 
to  bribe  conscription  officers.  This  was  a  dangerous  prac- 
tice, —  it  was  not  the  officers  who  suffered  most  in  case 
the  negotiations  leaked  out,  —  but  no  respectable  fam- 
ily would  let  a  son  be  taken  as  a  recruit  till  it  had  made 
every  effort  to  save  him.  My  grandfather  nearly  ruined 
himself  to  buy  his  sons  out  of  service;  and  my  mother 
tells  thrilling  anecdotes  of  her  younger  brother's  life, 
who  for  years  lived  in  hiding,  under  assumed  names  and 
in  various  disguises,  till  he  had  passed  the  age  of  liabil- 
ity for  service. 

If  it  were  cowardice  that  made  the  Jews  shrink  from 
military  service  they  would  not  inflict  on  themselves 
physical  tortures  greater  than  any  that  threatened  them 
in  the  army,  and  which  often  left  them  maimed  for  life. 
If  it  were  avarice  —  the  fear  of  losing  the  gains  from 
their  business  for  four  years  —  they  would  not  empty 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  15 

their  pockets  and  sell  their  houses  and  sink  into  debt, 
on  the  chance  of  successfully  bribing  the  Czar's  agents. 
The  Jewish  recruit  dreaded,  indeed,  brutality  and  in- 
justice at  the  hands  of  officers  and  comrades;  he  feared 
for  his  family,  which  he  left,  often  enough,  as  depend- 
ents on  the  charity  of  relatives;  but  the  fear  of  an 
unholy  life  was  greater  than  all  other  fears.  I  know, 
for  I  remember  my  cousin  who  was  taken  as  a  soldier. 
Everything  had  been  done  to  save  him.  Money  had 
been  spent  freely  —  my  uncle  did  not  stop  at  his  un- 
married daughter's  portion,  when  everything  else  was 
gone.  My  cousin  had  also  submitted  to  some  secret 
treatment,  —  some  devastating  drug  administered  for 
months  before  the  examination,  —  but  the  effects  were 
not  pronounced  enough,  and  he  was  passed.  For  the 
first  few  weeks  his  company  was  stationed  in  Polotzk. 
I  saw  my  cousin  drill  on  the  square,  carrying  a  gun,  on 
a  Sabbath.  I  felt  unholy,  as  if  I  had  sinned  the  sin  in  my 
own  person.  It  was  easy  to  understand  why  mothers  of 
conscript  sons  fasted  and  wept  and  prayed  and  worried 
themselves  to  their  graves. 

There  was  a  man  in  our  town  called  David  the  Sub- 
stitute, because  he  had  gone  as  a  soldier  in  another's 
stead,  he  himself  being  exempt.  He  did  it  for  a  sum  of 
money.  I  suppose  his  family  was  starving,  and  he  saw 
a  chance  to  provide  for  them  for  a  few  years.  But  it  was 
a  sinful  thing  to  do,  to  go  as  a  soldier  and  be  obliged  to 
live  like  a  Gentile,  of  his  own  free  will.  And  David  knew 
how  wicked  it  was,  for  he  was  a  pious  man  at  heart. 
When  he  returned  from  service,  he  was  aged  and  broken, 
bowed  down  with  the  sense  of  his  sins.  And  he  set 
himself  a  penance,  which  was  to  go  through  the  streets 
every  Sabbath  morning,  calling  the  people  to  prayer. 


16  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Now  this  was  a  hard  thing  to  do,  because  David  labored 
bitterly  all  the  week,  exposed  to  the  weather,  summer  or 
winter;  and  on  Sabbath  morning  there  was  nobody  so 
tired  and  lame  and  sore  as  David.  Yet  he  forced  him- 
self to  leave  his  bed  before  it  was  yet  daylight,  and  go 
from  street  to  street,  all  over  Polotzk,  calling  on  the 
people  to  wake  and  go  to  prayer.  Many  a  Sabbath 
morning  I  awoke  when  David  called,  and  lay  listening 
to  his  voice  as  it  passed  and  died  out;  and  it  was  so  sad 
that  it  hurt,  as  beautiful  music  hurts.  I  was  glad  to  feel 
my  sister  lying  beside  me,  for  it  was  lonely  in  the  gray 
dawn,  with  only  David  and  me  awake,  and  God  waiting 
for  the  people's  prayers. 

The  Gentiles  used  to  wonder  at  us  because  we  cared 
so  much  about  religious  things,  —  about  food,  and  Sab- 
bath, and  teaching  the  children  Hebrew.  They  were 
angry  with  us  for  our  obstinacy,  as  they  called  it,  and 
mocked  us  and  ridiculed  the  most  sacred  things.  There 
were  wise  Gentiles  who  understood.  These  were  edu- 
cated people,  like  Fedora  Pavlovna,  who  made  friends 
with  their  Jewish  neighbors.  They  were  always  respect- 
ful, and  openly  admired  some  of  our  ways.  But  most  of 
the  Gentiles  were  ignorant  and  distrustful  and  spiteful. 
They  would  not  believe  that  there  was  any  good  in  our 
religion,  and  of  course  we  dared  not  teach  them,  because 
we  should  be  accused  of  trying  to  convert  them,  and 
that  would  be  the  end  of  us. 

Oh,  if  they  could  only  understand !  Vanka  caught  me 
on  the  street  one  day,  and  pulled  my  hair,  and  called  me 
names;  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  asked  myself  why —  why? 
—  a  thing  I  had  stopped  asking  years  before.  I  was  so 
angry  that  I  could  have  punished  him;  for  one  moment 
I  was  not  afraid  to  hit  back.    But  this  why  —  why? 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  17 

broke  out  in  my  heart,  and  I  forgot  to  revenge  myself. 
It  was  so  wonderful  —  Well,  there  were  no  words  in  my 
head  to  say  it,  but  it  meant  that  Vanka  abused  me  only 
because  he  did  not  understand.  If  he  could  feel  with  my 
heart,  if  he  could  be  a  little  Jewish  boy  for  one  day,  I 
thought,  he  would  know  —  he  would  know.  If  he  could 
understand  about  David  the  Substitute,  now,  without 
being  told,  as  I  understood.  If  he  could  wake  in  my 
place  on  Sabbath  morning,  and  feel  his  heart  break  in 
him  with  a  strange  pain,  because  a  Jew  had  dishonored 
the  law  of  Moses,  and  God  was  bending  down  to  pardon 
him.  Oh,  why  could  I  not  make  Vanka  understand? 
I  was  so  sorry  that  my  heart  hurt  me,  worse  than>  Vanka's 
blows.  My  anger  and  my  courage  were  gone.  Vanka 
was  throwing  stones  at  me  now  from  his  mother's  door- 
way, and  I  continued  on  my  errand,  but  I  did  not  hurry. 
The  thing  that  hurt  me  most  I  could  not  run  away  from. 

There  was  one  thing  the  Gentiles  always  understood, 
and  that  was  money.  They  would  take  any  kind  of 
bribe  at  any  time.  Peace  cost  so  much  a  year  in  Polotzk. 
If  you  did  not  keep  on  good  terms  with  your  Gentile 
neighbors,  they  had  a  hundred  ways  of  molesting  you. 
If  you  chased  their  pigs  when  they  came  rooting  up 
your  garden,  or  objected  to  their  children  maltreating 
your  children,  they  might  complain  against  you  to  the 
police,  stuffing  their  case  with  false  accusations  and 
false  witnesses.  If  you  had  not  made  friends  with  the 
police,  the  case  might  go  to  court;  and  there  you  lost 
before  the  trial  was  called,  unless  the  judge  had  reason 
to  befriend  you.  The  cheapest  way  to  live  in  Polotzk 
was  to  pay  as  you  went  along.  Even  a  little  girl  under- 
stood that,  in  Polotzk. 

Perhaps  your  parents  were  in  business,  —  usually 


18  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

they  were,  as  almost  everybody  kept  store,  —  and  you 
heard  a  great  deal  about  the  chief  of  police,  and  excise 
officers,  and  other  agents  of  the  Czar.  Between  the 
Czar  whom  you  had  never  seen,  and  the  policeman 
whom  you  knew  too  well,  you  pictured  to  yourself  a 
long  row  of  officials  of  all  sorts,  all  with  their  palms 
stretched  out  to  receive  your  father's  money.  You  knew 
your  father  hated  them  all,  but  you  saw  him  smile  and 
bend  as  he  filled  those  greedy  palms.  You  did  the  same, 
in  your  petty  way,  when  you  saw  Vanka  coming  toward 
you  on  a  lonely  street,  and  you  held  out  to  him  the  core  of 
the  apple  you  had  been  chewing,  and  forced  your  un- 
willing lips  into  a  smile.  It  hurt,  that  false  smile;  it  made 
you  feel  black  inside. 

In  your  father's  parlor  hung  a  large  colored  portrait 
of  Alexander  III.  The  Czar  was  a  cruel  tyrant,  —  oh, 
it  was  whispered  when  doors  were  locked  and  shutters 
tightly  barred,  at  night,  —  he  was  a  Titus,  a  Haman,  a 
sworn  foe  of  all  Jews,  —  and  yet  his  portrait  was  seen  in 
a  place  of  honor  in  your  father's  house.  You  knew  why. 
It  looked  well  when  police  or  government  officers  came 
on  business. 

You  went  out  to  play  one  morning,  and  saw  a  little 
knot  of  people  gathered  around  a  lamp-post.  There  was 
a  notice  on  it  —  a  new  order  from  the  chief  of  police. 
You  pushed  into  the  crowd,  and  stared  at  the  placard, 
but  you  could  not  read.  A  woman  with  a  ragged  shawl 
looked  down  upon  you,  and  said,  with  a  bitter  kind  of 
smile,  "Rejoice,  rejoice,  little  girl!  The  chief  of  police 
bids  you  rejoice.  There  shall  be  a  pretty  flag  flying 
from  every  housetop  to-day,  because  it  is  the  Czar's 
birthday,  and  we  must  celebrate.  Come  and  watch  the 
poor  people  pawn  their  samovars  and  candlesticks,  to 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  19 

raise  money  for  a  pretty  flag.  It  is  a  holiday,  little  girl. 
Rejoice!" 

You  know  the  woman  is  mocking,  —  you  are  familiar 
with  the  quality  of  that  smile,  —  but  you  accept  the 
hint  and  go  and  watch  the  people  buy  their  flags.  Your 
cousin  keeps  a  dry-goods  store,  where  you  have  a  fine 
view  of  the  proceedings.  There  is  a  crowd  around  the 
counter,  and  your  cousin  and  the  assistant  are  busily 
measuring  off  lengths  of  cloth,  red,  and  blue,  and  white. 

"How  much  does  it  take?"  somebody  asks.  "May  I 
know  no  more  of  sin  than  I  know  of  flags,"  another  re- 
plies .  * '  How  is  it  put  together  ?  "  "  Do  you  have  to  have 
all  three  colors?  "  One  customer  puts  down  a  few  kopecks 
on  the  counter,  saying,  "Give  me  a  piece  of  flag.  This 
is  all  the  money  I  have.  Give  me  the  red  and  the  blue; 
I'll  tear  up  my  shirt  for  the  white." 

You  know  it  is  no  joke.  The  flag  must  show  from 
every  house,  or  the  owner  will  be  dragged  to  the  police 
station,  to  pay  a  fine  of  twenty-five  rubles.  What  hap- 
pened to  the  old  woman  who  lives  in  that  tumble-down 
shanty  over  the  way?  It  was  that  other  time  when  flags 
were  ordered  up,  because  the  Grand  Duke  was  to  visit 
Polotzk.  The  old  woman  had  no  flag,  and  no  money. 
She  hoped  the  policeman  would  not  notice  her  miserable 
hut.  But  he  did,  the  vigilant  one,  and  he  went  up  and 
kicked  the  door  open  with  his  great  boot,  and  he  took 
the  last  pillow  from  the  bed,  and  sold  it,  and  hoisted 
a  flag  above  the  rotten  roof.  I  knew  the  old  woman 
well,  with  her  one  watery  eye  and  her  crumpled  hands. 
I  often  took  a  plate  of  soup  to  her  from  our  kitchen. 
There  was  nothing  but  rags  left  on  her  bed,  when  the 
policeman  had  taken  the  pillow. 

The  Czar  always  got  his  dues,  no  matter  if  it  ruined  a  i 


20  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

family.  There  was  a  poor  locksmith  who  owed  the  Czar 
three  hundred  rubles,  because  his  brother  had  escaped 
from  Russia  before  serving  his  term  in  the  army.  There 
was  no  such  fine  for  Gentiles,  only  for  Jews;  and  the 
whole  family  was  liable.  Now,  the  locksmith  never 
could  have  so  much  money,  and  he  had  no  valuables  to 
pawn.  The  police  came  and  attached  his  household 
goods,  everything  he  had,  including  his  young  bride's 
trousseau;  and  the  sale  of  the  goods  brought  thirty-five 
rubles.  After  a  year's  time  the  police  came  again,  look- 
ing for  the  balance  of  the  Czar's  dues.  They  put  their 
seal  on  everything  they  found.  The  bride  was  in  bed 
with  her  first  baby,  a  boy.  The  circumcision  was  to  be 
next  day.  The  police  did  not  leave  a  sheet  to  wrap  the 
child  in  when  he  is  handed  up  for  the  operation. 

Many  bitter  sayings  came  to  your  ears  if  you  were  a 
Jewish  little  girl  in  Polotzk.  "It  is  a  false  world,"  you 
heard,  and  you  knew  it  was  so,  looking  at  the  Czar's 
portrait,  and  at  the  flags.  "Never  tell  a  police  officer 
the  truth,"  was  another  saying,  and  you  knew  it  was 
good  advice.  That  fine  of  three  hundred  rubles  was  a 
sentence  of  lifelong  slavery  for  the  poor  locksmith,  un- 
less he  freed  himself  by  some  trick.  As  fast  as  he  could 
collect  a  few  rags  and  sticks,  the  police  would  be  after 
them.  He  might  hide  under  a  false  name,  if  he  could  get 
away  from  Polotzk  on  a  false  passport;  or  he  might 
bribe  the  proper  officials  to  issue  a  false  certificate  of  the 
missing  brother's  death.  Only  by  false  means  could  he 
secure  peace  for  himself  and  his  family,  as  long  as  the 
Czar  was  after  his  dues. 

It  was  bewildering  to  hear  how  many  kinds  of  duties 
and  taxes  we  owed  the  Czar.  We  paid  taxes  on  our 
houses,  and  taxes  on  the  rents  from  the  houses,  taxes 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  21 

on  our  business,  taxes  on  our  profits.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  there  were  taxes  on  our  losses.  The  town  col- 
lected taxes,  and  the  county,  and  the  central  govern- 
ment; and  the  chief  of  police  we  had  always  with  us. 
There  were  taxes  for  public  works,  but  rotten  pave- 
ments went  on  rotting  year  after  year;  and  when  a  bridge 
was  to  be  built,  special  taxes  were  levied.  A  bridge, 
by  the  way,  was  not  always  a  public  highway.  A  rail- 
road bridge  across  the  Dvina,  while  open  to  the  mili- 
tary, could  be  used  by  the  people  only  by  individual 
permission. 

My  uncle  explained  to  me  all  about  the  excise  duties 
on  tobacco.  Tobacco  being  a  source  of  government 
revenue,  there  was  a  heavy  tax  on  it.  Cigarettes  were 
taxed  at  every  step  of  their  process.  The  tobacco  was 
taxed  separately,  and  the  paper,  and  the  mouthpiece, 
and  on  the  finished  product  an  additional  tax  was  put. 
There  was  no  tax  on  the  smoke.  The  Czar  must  have 
overlooked  it. 

Business  really  did  not  pay  when  the  price  of  goods 
was  so  swollen  by  taxes  that  the  people  could  not  buy. 
The  only  way  to  make  business  pay  was  to  cheat  — 
cheat  the  Government  of  part  of  the  duties.  But  play- 
ing tricks  on  the  Czar  was  dangerous,  with  so  many  spies 
watching  his  interests.  People  who  sold  cigarettes  with- 
out the  government  seal  got  more  gray  hairs  than  bank 
notes  out  of  their  business.  The  constant  risk,  the  worry, 
the  dread  of  a  police  raid  in  the  night,  and  the  ruin- 
ous fines,  in  case  of  detection,  left  very  little  margin 
of  profit  or  comfort  to  the  dealer  in  contraband  goods. 
"But  what  can  one  do?"  the  people  said,  with  the  shrug 
of  the  shoulders  that  expresses  the  helplessness  of  the 
Pale.  "What  can  one  do?  One  must  live." 


22  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

It  was  not  easy  to  live,  with  such  bitter  competition 
as  the  congestion  of  population  made  inevitable.  There 
were  ten  times  as  many  stores  as  there  should  have  been, 
ten  times  as  many  tailors,  cobblers,  barbers,  tinsmiths. 
A  Gentile,  if  he  failed  in  Polotzk,  could  go  elsewhere, 
where  there  was  less  competition.  A  Jew  could  make  the 
circle  of  the  Pale,  only  to  find  the  same  conditions  as 
at  home.  Outside  the  Pale  he  could  only  go  to  certain 
designated  localities,  on  payment  of  prohibitive  fees, 
augmented  by  a  constant  stream  of  bribes;  and  even 
then  he  lived  at  the  mercy  of  the  local  chief  of  police. 

Artisans  had  the  right  to  reside  outside  the  Pale,  on 
fulfilment  of  certain  conditions.  This  sounded  easy  to 
me,  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  till  I  realized  how  it  worked. 
There  was  a  capmaker  who  had  duly  qualified,  by  pass- 
ing an  examination  and  paying  for  his  trade  papers,  to 
live  in  a  certain  city.  The  chief  of  police  suddenly  took 
it  into  his  head  to  impeach  the  genuineness  of  his  papers. 
The  capmaker  was  obliged  to  travel  to  St.  Petersburg, 
where  he  had  qualified  in  the  first  place,  to  repeat  the 
examination.  He  spent  the  savings  of  years  in  petty 
bribes,  trying  to  hasten  the  process,  but  was  detained 
ten  months  by  bureaucratic  red  tape.  When  at  length 
he  returned  to  his  home  town,  he  found  a  new  chief  of 
police,  installed  during  his  absence,  who  discovered  a  new 
flaw  in  the  papers  he  had  just  obtained,  and  expelled  him 
from  the  city.  If  he  came  to  Polotzk,  there  were  then 
eleven  capmakers  where  only  one  could  make  a  living. 

Merchants  fared  like  the  artisans.  They,  too,  could 
buy  the  right  of  residence  outside  the  Pale,  permanent 
or  temporary,  on  conditions  that  gave  them  no  real 
security.  I  was  proud  to  have  an  uncle  who  was  a  mer- 
chant of  the  First  Guild,  but  it  was  very  expensive  for 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  23 

mi  uncle.  He  had  to  pay  so  much  a  year  for  the  title, 
and  a  certain  percentage  on  the  profits  from  his  business. 
This  gave  him  the  right  to  travel  on  business  outside  the 
Pale,  twice  a  year,  for  not  more  than  six  months  in  all. 
If  he  were  found  outside  the  Pale  after  his  permit  ex- 
pired, he  had  to  pay  a  fine  that  exceeded  all  he  had 
gained  by  his  journey,  perhaps.  I  used  to  picture  my 
uncle  on  his  Russian  travels,  hurrying,  hurrying  to  finish 
his  business  in  the  limited  time;  while  a  policeman 
marched  behind  him,  ticking  off  the  days  and  counting 
up  the  hours.  That  was  a  foolish  fancy,  but  some  of  the 
things  that  were  done  in  Russia  really  were  very  funny. 

There  were  things  in  Polotzk  that  made  you  laugh 
with  one  eye  and  weep  with  the  other,  like  a  clown. 
During  an  epidemic  of  cholera,  the  city  officials,  sud- 
denly becoming  energetic,  opened  stations  for  the  dis- 
tribution of  disinfectants  to  the  people.  A  quarter  of 
the  population  was  dead  when  they  began,  and  most  of 
the  dead  were  buried,  while  some  lay  decaying  in  de- 
serted houses.  The  survivors,  some  of  them  crazy  from 
horror,  stole  through  the  empty  streets,  avoiding  one 
another,  till  they  came  to  the  appointed  stations,  where 
they  pushed  and  crowded  to  get  their  little  bottles  of 
carbolic  acid.  Many  died  from  fear  in  those  horrible 
days,  but  some  must  have  died  from  laughter.  For  only 
the  Gentiles  were  allowed  to  receive  the  disinfectant. 
Poor  Jews  who  had  nothing  but  their  new-made  graves 
were  driven  away  from  the  stations. 

Perhaps  it  was  wrong  of  us  to  think  of  our  Gentile 
neighbors  as  a  different  species  of  beings  from  ourselves, 
but  such  madness  as  that  did  not  help  to  make  them  more 
human  in  our  eyes.  It  was  easier  to  be  friends  with  the 
beasts  in  the  barn  than  with  some  of  the  Gentiles.  The 


24  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

cow  and  the  goat  and  the  cat  responded  to  kindness, 
and  remembered  which  of  the  housemaids  was  generous 
and  which  was  cross.  The  Gentiles  made  no  distinc- 
tions. A  Jew  was  a  Jew,  to  be  hated  and  spat  upon  and 
used  spitefully. 

The  only  Gentiles,  besides  the  few  of  the  intelligent 
kind,  who  did  not  habitually  look  upon  us  with  hate  and 
contempt,  were  the  stupid  peasants  from  the  country, 
who  were  hardly  human  themselves.  They  lived  in 
filthy  huts  together  with  their  swine,  and  all  they  cared 
for  was  how  to  get  something  to  eat.  It  was  not  their 
fault.  The  land  laws  made  them  so  poor  that  they  had 
to  sell  themselves  to  fill  their  bellies.  What  help  was 
there  for  us  in  the  good  will  of  such  wretched  slaves? 
For  a  cask  of  vodka  you  could  buy  up  a  whole  village 
of  them.  They  trembled  before  the  meanest  townsman, 
and  at  a  sign  from  a  long-haired  priest  they  would 
sharpen  their  axes  against  us. 

The  Gentiles  had  their  excuse  for  their  malice.  They 
said  our  merchants  and  money-lenders  preyed  upon 
them,  and  our  shopkeepers  gave  false  measure.  People 
who  want  to  defend  the  Jews  ought  never  to  deny  this. 
Yes,  I  say,  we  cheated  the  Gentiles  whenever  we  dared, 
because  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do.  Remember  how  the 
Czar  was  always  sending  us  commands,  —  you  shall  not 
do  this  and  you  shall  not  do  that,  until  there  was  little 
left  that  we  might  honestly  do,  except  pay  tribute  and 
die.  There  he  had  us  cooped  up,  thousands  of  us  where 
only  hundreds  could  live,  and  every  means  of  living 
taxed  to  the  utmost.  When  there  are  too  many  wolves 
in  the  prairie,  they  begin  to  prey  upon  each  other.  We 
starving  captives  of  the  Pale  —  we  did  as  do  the  hungry 
brutes.  But  our  humanity  showed  in  our  discrimination 


THE  GRAVE  DIGGER  OF   POLOTZK 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  25 

between  our  victims.  Whenever  we  could,  we  spared 
our  own  kind,  directing  against  our  racial  foes  the  cun- 
ning wiles  which  our  bitter  need  invented.  Is  not  that 
the  code  of  war?  Encamped  in  the  midst  of  the  enemy, 
we  could  practice  no  other.  A  Jew  could  hardly  exist  in 
business  unless  he  developed  a  dual  conscience,  which 
allowed  him  to  do  to  the  Gentile  what  he  would  call  a 
sin  against  a  fellow  Jew.  Such  spiritual  deformities  are 
self -explained  in  the  step-children  of  the  Czar.  A  glance 
over  the  statutes  of  the  Pale  leaves  you  wondering  that 
the  Russian  Jews  have  not  lost  all  semblance  to  human- 
ity. 

A  favorite  complaint  against  us  was  that  we  were 
greedy  for  gold.  Why  could  not  the  Gentiles  see  the 
whole  truth  where  they  saw  half?  Greedy  for  profits  we 
were,  eager  for  bargains,  for  savings,  intent  on  squeez- 
ing the  utmost  out  of  every  business  transaction.  But 
why?  Did  not  the  Gentiles  know  the  reason?  Did  they 
not  know  what  price  we  had  to  pay  for  the  air  we 
breathed?  If  a  Jew  and  a  Gentile  kept  store  side  by  side, 
the  Gentile  could  content  himself  with  smaller  profits. 
He  did  not  have  to  buy  permission  to  travel  in  the  in- 
terests of  his  business.  He  did  not  have  to  pay  three 
hundred  rubles  fine  if  his  son  evaded  military  service. 
He  was  saved  the  expense  of  hushing  inciters  of  pogroms. 
Police  favor  was  retailed  at  a  lower  price  to  him  than 
to  the  Jew.  His  nature  did  not  compel  him  to  support 
schools  and  charities.  It  cost  nothing  to  be  a  Christian; 
on  the  contrary,  it  brought  rewards  and  immunities. 
To  be  a  Jew  was  a  costly  luxury,  the  price  of  which 
was  either  money  or  blood.  Is  it  any  .wonder  that  we 
hoarded  our  pennies?  What  his  shield  is  to  the  soldier  in 
battle,  that  was  the  ruble  to  the  Jew  in  the  Pale. 


26  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

The  knowledge  of  such  things  as  I  am  telling  leaves 
marks  upon  the  flesh  and  spirit.  I  remember  little  child- 
ren in  Polotzk  with  old,  old  faces  and  eyes  glazed  with 
secrets.  I  knew  how  to  dodge  and  cringe  and  dissemble 
before  I  knew  the  names  of  the  seasons.  And  I  had 
plenty  of  time  to  ponder  on  these  things,  because  I  was 
so  idle.  If  they  had  let  me  go  to  school,  now  —  But  of 
course  they  did  n't. 

There  was  no  free  school  for  girls,  and  even  if  your 
parents  were  rich  enough  to  send  you  to  a  private 
school,  you  could  not  go  very  far.  At  the  high  school, 
which  was  under  government  control,  Jewish  children 
were  admitted  in  limited  numbers, — only  ten  to  every 
hundred,  —  and  even  if  you  were  among  the  lucky  ones, 
you  had  your  troubles.  The  tutor  who  prepared  you 
talked  all  the  time  about  the  examinations  you  would 
have  to  pass,  till  you  were  scared.  You  heard  on  all  sides 
that  the  brightest  Jewish  children  were  turned  down  if 
the  examining  officers  did  not  like  the  turn  of  their  noses. 
You  went  up  to  be  examined  with  the  other  Jewish  child- 
ren, your  heart  heavy  about  that  matter  of  your  nose. 
There  was  a  special  examination  for  the  Jewish  candi- 
dates, of  course;  a  nine-year-old  Jewish  child  had  to 
answer  questions  that  a  thirteen-year-old  Gentile  was 
hardly  expected  to  understand.  But  that  did  not  mat- 
ter so  much.  You  had  been  prepared  for  the  thirteen- 
year-old  test;  you  found  the  questions  quite  easy.  You 
wrote  your  answers  triumphantly  —  and  you  received  a 
low  rating,  and  there  was  no  appeal. 

I  used  to  stand  in  the  doorway  of  my  father's  store, 
munching  an  apple  that  did  not  taste  good  any  more, 
and  watch  the  pupils  going  home  from  school  in  twos 
and  threes;  the  girls  in  neat  brown  dresses  and  black 


WITHIN  THE  PALE  27 

aprons  and  little  stiff  hats,  the  boys  in  trim  uniforms 
with  many  buttons.  They  had  ever  so  many  books  in 
the  satchels  on  their  backs.  They  would  take  them  out 
at  home,  and  read  and  write,  and  learn  all  sorts  of  inter- 
esting things.  They  looked  to  me  like  beings  from  an- 
other world  than  mine.  But  those  whom  I  envied  had 
their  own  troubles,  as  I  often  heard.  Their  school  life 
was  one  struggle  against  injustice  from  instructors, 
spiteful  treatment  from  fellow  students,  and  insults 
from  everybody.  Those  who,  by  heroic  efforts  and 
transcendent  good  luck,  successfully  finished  the  course, 
found  themselves  against  a  new  wail,  if  they  wished  to 
go  on.  They  were  turned  down  at  the  universities, 
which  admitted  them  in  the  ratio  of  three  Jews  to  a 
hundred  Gentiles,  under  the  same  debarring  entrance 
conditions  as  at  the  high  school,  —  especially  rigorous 
examinations,  dishonest  marking,  or  arbitrary  rulings 
without  disguise.  No,  the  Czar  did  not  want  us  in  the 
schools.  * 

i  I  heard  from  my  mother  of  a  different  state  of  affairs, 
at  the  time  when  her  brothers  were  little  boys.  The 
Czar  of  those  days  had  a  bright  idea.  He  said  to  his  min- 
isters :  "Let  us  educate  the  people.  Let  us  win  over  those 
Jews  through  the  public  schools,  instead  of  allowing 
them  to  persist  in  their  narrow  Hebrew  learning,  which 
teaches  them  no  love  for  their  monarch.  Force  has 
failed  with  them;  the  unwilling  converts  return  to  their 
old  ways  whenever  they  dare.  Let  us  try  education." 
Perhaps  peaceable  conversion  of  the  Jews  was  not  the 
Czar's  only  motive  when  he  opened  public  schools  every- 
where and  compelled  parents  to  send  their  boys  for  in- 
struction. Perhaps  he  just  wanted  to  be  good,  and  really 
hoped  to  benefit  the  country.  But  to  the  Jews  the  public 


28  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

schools  appeared  as  a  trap  door  to  the  abyss  of  apos- 
tasy. The  instructors  were  always  Christians,  the  teach- 
ing was  Christian,  and  the  regulations  of  the  schoolroom, 
as  to  hours,  costume,  and  manners,  were  often  in  oppo- 
sition to  Jewish  practices.  The  public  school  interrupted 
the  boy's  sacred  studies  in  the  Hebrew  school.  Where 
would  you  look  for  pious  Jews,  after  a  few  generations 
of  boys  brought  up  by  Christian  teachers?  Plainly  the 
Czar  was  after  the  souls  of  the  Jewish  children.  The 
church  door  gaped  for  them  at  the  end  of  the  school 
course.  And  all  good  Jews  rose  up  against  the  schools, 
and  by  every  means,  fair  or  foul,  kept  their  boys  away. 
The  official  appointed  to  keep  the  register  of  boys  for 
school  purposes  waxed  rich  on  the  bribes  paid  him  by 
anxious  parents  who  kept  their  sons  in  hiding. 

After  a  while  the  wise  Czar  changed  his  mind,  or  he 
died,  —  probably  he  did  both,  —  and  the  schools  were 
closed,  and  the  Jewish  boys  perused  their  Hebrew  books 
in  peace,  wearing  the  sacred  fringes *  in  plain  sight,  and 
never  polluting  their  mouths  with  a  word  of  Russian. 

And  then  it  was  the  Jews  who  changed  their  minds  — 
some  of  them.  They  wanted  to  send  their  children  to 
school,  to  learn  histories  and  sciences,  because  they  had 
discovered  that  there  was  good  in  such  things  as  well  as 
in  the  Sacred  Law.  These  people  were  called  progressive, 
but  they  had  no  chance  to  progress.  All  the  czars  that 
came  along  persisted  in  the  old  idea,  that  for  the  Jew 
no  door  should  be  opened,  —  no  door  out  of  the  Pale, 
no  door  out  of  their  medievalism. 

1  A  four-cornered  cloth  with  specially  prepared  fringes  is  worn  by  pious 
males  under  the  outer  garments,  but  with  the  fringes  showing.  The  latter 
play  a  part  in  the  daily  ritual. 


CHAPTER  II 

CHILDREN   OF   THE   LAW 

As  I  look  back  to-day  I  see,  within  the  wall  raised 
around  my  birthplace  by  the  vigilance  of  the  police, 
another  wall,  higher,  thicker,  more  impenetrable.  This 
is  the  wall  which  the  Czar  with  all  his  minions  could 
not  shake,  the  priests  with  their  instruments  of  torture 
could  not  pierce,  the  mob  with  their  firebrands  could 
not  destroy.  This  wall  within  the  wall  is  the  religious 
integrity  of  the  Jews,  a  fortress  erected  by  the  prisoners 
of  the  Pale,  in  defiance  of  their  jailers;  a  stronghold 
built  of  the  ruins  of  their  pillaged  homes,  cemented  with 
the  blood  of  their  murdered  children. 

Harassed  on  every  side,  thwarted  in  every  normal 
effort,  pent  up  within  narrow  limits,  all  but  dehuman- 
ized, the  Russian  Jew  fell  back  upon  the  only  thing  that 
never  failed  him,  —  his  hereditary  faith  in  God.  In  the 
study  of  the  Torah  he  found  the  balm  for  all  his  wounds; 
the  minute  observance  of  traditional  rites  became  the 
expression  of  his  spiritual  cravings;  and  in  the  dream  of 
a  restoration  to  Palestine  he  forgot  the  world. 

What  did  it  matter  to  us,  on  a  Sabbath  or  festival, 
when  our  life  was  centred  in  the  synagogue,  what  czar 
sat  on  the  throne,  what  evil  counsellors  whispered  in  his 
ear?  They  were  concerned  with  revenues  and  policies 
and  ephemeral  trifles  of  all  sorts,  while  we  were  intent 
on  renewing  our  ancient  covenant  with  God,  to  the  end 
that  His  promise  to  the  world  should  be  fulfilled,  and  His 
justice  overwhelm  the  nations. 


30  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

On  a  Friday  afternoon  the  stores  and  markets  closed 
early.  The  clatter  of  business  ceased,  the  dust  of  worry 
was  laid,  and  the  Sabbath  peace  flooded  the  quiet 
streets.  No  hovel  so  mean  but  what  its  casement  sent 
out  its  consecrated  ray,  so  that  a  wayfarer  passing  in 
the  twilight  saw  the  spirit  of  God  brooding  over  the 
lowly  roof. 

Care  and  fear  and  shrewishness  dropped  like  a  mask 
from  every  face.  Eyes  dimmed  with  weeping  kindled 
with  inmost  joy.  Wherever  a  head  bent  over  a  sacred 
page,  there  rested  the  halo  of  God's  presence. 

Not  on  festivals  alone,  but  also  on  the  common  days 
of  the  week,  we  lived  by  the  Law  that  had  been  given 
us  through  our  teacher  Moses.  How  to  eat,  how  to 
bathe,  how  to  work  —  everything  had  been  written 
down  for  us,  and  we  strove  to  fulfil  the  Law.  The  study 
of  the  Torah  was  the  most  honored  of  all  occupations, 
and  they  who  engaged  in  it  the  most  revered  of  all 
men. 

My  memory  does  not  go  back  to  a  time  when  I  was 
too  young  to  know  that  God  had  made  the  world,  and 
had  appointed  teachers  to  tell  the  people  how  to  live  in 
it.  First  came  Moses,  and  after  him  the  great  rabbis, 
and  finally  the  Rav  of  Polotzk,  who  read  all  day  in  the 
sacred  books,  so  that  he  could  tell  me  and  my  parents 
and  my  friends  what  to  do  whenever  we  were  in  doubt. 
If  my  mother  cut  up  a  chicken  and  found  something 
wrong  in  it,  —  some  hurt  or  mark  that  should  not  be,  — 
she  sent  the  housemaid  with  it  to  the  rav,  and  I  ran 
along,  and  saw  the  rav  look  in  his  big  books;  and  what- 
ever he  decided  was  right.  If  he  called  the  chicken 
"trefah"  I  must  not  eat  of  it;  no,  not  if  I  had  to  starve. 
And  the  rav  knew  about  everything:  about  going  on  a 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAW  31 

journey,  about  business,  about  marrying,  about  purify- 
ing vessels  for  Passover. 

Another  great  teacher  was  the  dayyan,  who  heard 
people's  quarrels  and  settled  them  according  to  the  Law, 
so  that  they  should  not  have  to  go  to  the  Gentile  courts. 
The  Gentiles  were  false,  judges  and  witnesses  and  all. 
They  favored  the  rich  man  against  the  poor,  the  Christ- 
ian against  the  Jew.  The  dayyan  always  gave  true 
judgments.  Nohem  Rabinovitch,  the  richest  man  in 
Polotzk,  could  not  win  a  case  against  a  servant  maid, 
unless  he  were  in  the  right. 

Besides  the  rav  and  the  dayyan  there  were  other  men 
whose  callings  were  holy,  —  the  shohat,  who  knew 
how  cattle  and  fowls  should  be  killed;  the  hazzan  and 
the  other  officers  of  the  synagogue;  the  teachers  of  He- 
brew, and  their  pupils.  It  did  not  matter  how  poor  a 
man  was,  he  was  to  be  respected  and  set  above  other 
men,  if  he  were  learned  in  the  Law. 

In  the  synagogue  scores  of  men  sat  all  day  long  over 
the  Hebrew  books,  studying  and  disputing  from  early 
dawn  till  candles  were  brought  in  at  night,  and  then  as 
long  as  the  candles  lasted.  They  could  not  take  time  for 
anything  else,  if  they  meant  to  become  great  scholars. 
Most  of  them  were  strangers  in  Polotzk,  and  had  no 
home  except  the  synagogue.  They  slept  on  benches, 
on  tables,  on  the  floor;  they  picked  up  their  meals 
wherever  they  could.  They  had  come  from  distant  cities, 
so  as  to  be  under  good  teachers  in  Polotzk;  and  the 
townspeople  were  proud  to  support  them  by  giving 
them  food  and  clothing  and  sometimes  money  to  visit 
their  homes  on  holidays.  But  the  poor  students  came 
in  such  numbers  that  there  were  not  enough  rich  fam- 
ilies to  provide  for  all,  so  that  some  of  them  suffered 


32  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

privation.  You  could  pick  out  a  poor  student  in  a 
crowd,  by  his  pale  face  and  shrunken  form. 

There  was  almost  always  a  poor  student  taking  meals 
at  our  house.  He  was  assigned  a  certain  day,  and  on 
that  day  my  grandmother  took  care  to  have  something 
especially  good  for  dinner.  It  was  a  very  shabby  guest 
who  sat  down  with  us  at  table,  but  we  children  watched 
him  with  respectful  eyes.  Grandmother  had  told  us 
that  he  was  a  lamden  (scholar),  and  we  saw  something 
holy  in  the  way  he  ate  his  cabbage. 

Not  every  man  could  hope  to  be  a  rav,  but  no  Jewish 
boy  was  allowed  to  grow  up  without  at  least  a  rudiment- 
ary knowledge  of  Hebrew.  The  scantiest  income  had  to 
be  divided  so  as  to  provide  for  the  boys'  tuition.  To  leave 
a  boy  without  a  teacher  was  a  disgrace  upon  the  whole 
family,  to  the  remotest  relative.  For  the  children  of  the 
destitute  there  was  a  free  school,  supported  by  the  char- 
ity of  the  pious.  And  so  every  boy  was  sent  to  heder 
(Hebrew  school)  almost  as  soon  as  he  could  speak;  and 
usually  he  continued  to  study  until  his  confirmation,  at 
thirteen  years  of  age,  or  as  much  longer  as  his  talent  and 
ambition  carried  him.  My  brother  was  five  years  old 
when  he  entered  on  his  studies.  He  was  carried  to  the 
heder,  on  the  first  day,  covered  over  with  a  praying- 
shawl,  so  that  nothing  unholy  should  look  on  him;  and 
he  was  presented  with  a  bun,  on  which  were  traced,  in 
honey,  these  words:  "The  Torah  left  by  Moses  is  the 
heritage  of  the  children  of  Jacob." 

After  a  boy  entered  heder,  he  was  the  hero  of  the  fam- 
ily. He  was  served  before  the  other  children  at  table, 
and  nothing  was  too  good  for  him.  If  the  family  were 
very  poor,  all  the  girls  might  go  barefoot,  but  the  heder 
boy  must  have  shoes;  he  must  have  a  plate  of  hot  soup, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAW  S3 

though  the  others  ate  dry  bread.  When  the  rebbe 
(teacher)  came  on  Sabbath  afternoon,  to  examine  the 
boy  in  the  hearing  of  the  family,  everybody  sat  around 
the  table  and  nodded  with  satisfaction,  if  he  read  his 
portion  well;  and  he  was  given  a  great  saucerful  of  pre- 
serves, and  was  praised,  and  blessed,  and  made  much  of. 
No  wonder  he  said,  in  his  morning  prayer,  "I  thank 
Thee,  Lord,  for  not  having  created  me  a  female."  It 
was  not  much  to  be  a  girl,  you  see.  Girls  could  not  be 
scholars  and  rabbonim. 

I  went  to  my  brother's  heder,  sometimes,  to  bring 
him  his  dinner,  and  saw  how  the  boys  studied.  They 
sat  on  benches  around  the  table,  with  their  hats  on,  of 
course,  and  the  sacred  fringes  hanging  beneath  their 
jackets.  The  rebbe  sat  at  an  end  of  the  table,  rehears- 
ing two  or  three  of  the  boys  who  were  studying  the  same 
part,  pointing  out  the  words  with  his  wooden  pointer, 
so  as  not  to  lose  the  place.  Everybody  read  aloud,  the 
smallest  boys  repeating  the  alphabet  in  a  sing-song, 
while  the  advanced  boys  read  their  portions  in  a  differ- 
ent sing-song;  and  everybody  raised  his  voice  to  its  loud- 
est so  as  to  drown  the  other  voices.  The  good  boys  never 
took  their  eyes  off  their  page,  except  to  ask  the  rebbe  a 
question;  but  the  naughty  boys  stared  around  the  room, 
and  kicked  each  other  under  the  table,  till  the  rebbe 
caught  them  at  it.  He  had  a  ruler  for  striking  the  bad 
boys  on  the  knuckles,  and  in  a  corner  of  the  room  leaned 
a  long  birch  wand  for  pupils  who  would  not  learn  their 
lessons. 

The  boys  came  to  heder  before  nine  in  the  morning, 
and  remained  until  eight  or  nine  in  the  evening.  Stupid 
pupils,  who  could  not  remember  the  lesson,  sometimes 
had  to  stay  till  ten.  There  was  an  hour  for  dinner  and 


34  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

play  at  noon.  Good  little  boys  played  quietly  in  their 
places,  but  most  of  the  boys  ran  out  of  the  house  and 
jumped  and  yelled  and  quarrelled. 

There  was  nothing  in  what  the  boys  did  in  heder  that 
I  could  not  have  done  —  if  I  had  not  been  a  girl.  For  a 
girl  it  was  enough  if  she  could  read  her  prayers  in  He- 
brew, and  follow  the  meaning  by  the  Yiddish  transla- 
tion at  the  bottom  of  the  page.  It  did  not  take  long  to 
learn  this  much,  —  a  couple  of  terms  with  a  rebbetzin  (fe- 
male teacher),  —  and  after  that  she  was  done  with  books. 

A  girl's  real  schoolroom  was  her  mother's  kitchen. 
There  she  learned  to  bake  and  cook  and  manage,  to  knit, 
sew,  and  embroider;  also  to  spin  and  weave,  in  country 
places.  And  while  her  hands  were  busy,  her  mother  in- 
structed her  in  the  laws  regulating  a  pious  Jewish  house- 
hold and  in  the  conduct  proper  for  a  Jewish  wife;  for, 
of  course,  every  girl  hoped  to  be  a  wife.  A  girl  was  born 
for  no  other  purpose. 

How  soon  it  came,  the  pious  burden  of  wifehood !  One 
day  the  girl  is  playing  forfeits  with  her  laughing  friends, 
the  next  day  she  is  missed  from  the  circle.  She  has  been 
summoned  to  a  conference  with  the  shadchan  (marriage 
broker),  who  has  been  for  months  past  advertising  her 
housewifely  talents,  her  piety,  her  good  looks,  and  her 
marriage  portion,  among  families  with  marriageable 
sons.  Her  parents  are  pleased  with  the  son-in-law  pro- 
posed by  the  shadchan,  and  now,  at  the  last,  the  girl 
is  brought  in,  to  be  examined  and  appraised  by  the 
prospective  parents-in-law.  If  the  negotiations  go  off 
smoothly,  the  marriage  contract  is  written,  presents  are 
exchanged  between  the  engaged  couple,  through  their  re- 
spective parents,  and  all  that  is  left  the  girl  of  her  maiden- 
hood is  a  period  of  busy  preparation  for  the  wedding. 


CHILDREN   OF  THE  LAW  35 

If  the  girl  is  well-to-do,  it  is  a  happy  interval,  spent 
in  visits  to  the  drapers  and  tailors,  in  collecting  linens 
and  featherbeds  and  vessels  of  copper  and  brass.  The 
former  playmates  come  to  inspect  the  trousseau,  envi- 
ously fingering  the  silks  and  velvets  of  the  bride-elect. 
The  happy  heroine  tries  on  frocks  and  mantles  before 
her  glass,  blushing  at  references  to  the  wedding  day;  and 
to  the  question,  "How  do  you  like  the  bridegroom? "  she 
replies,  "How  should  I  know?  There  was  such  a  crowd 
at  the  betrothal  that  I  did  n't  see  him." 

Marriage  was  a  sacrament  with  us  Jews  in  the  Pale. 
To  rear  a  family  of  children  was  to  serve  God.  Every 
Jewish  man  and  woman  had  a  part  in  the  fulfilment  of 
the  ancient  promise  given  to  Jacob  that  his  seed  should 
be  abundantly  scattered  over  the  earth.  Parenthood, 
therefore,  was  the  great  career.  But  while  men,  in  addi- 
tion to  begetting,  might  busy  themselves  with  the  study 
of  the  Law,  woman's  only  work  was  motherhood.  To  be 
left  an  old  maid  became,  accordingly,  the  greatest  mis- 
fortune that  could  threaten  a  girl;  and  to  ward  off  that 
calamity  the  girl  and  her  family,  to  the  most  distant  rela- 
tives, would  strain  every  nerve,  whether  by  contributing 
to  her  dowry,  or  hiding  her  defects  from  the  marriage 
broker,  or  praying  and  fasting  that  God  might  send  her 
a  husband. 

Not  only  must  all  the  children  of  a  family  be  mated, 
but  they  must  marry  in  the  order  of  their  ages.  A 
younger  daughter  must  on  no  account  marry  before  an 
elder.  A  houseful  of  daughters  might  be  held  up  because 
the  eldest  failed  to  find  favor  in  the  eyes  of  prospective 
mothers-in-law;  not  one  of  the  others  could  marry  till 
the  eldest  was  disposed  of. 
\  A  cousin  of  mine  was  guilty  of  the  disloyalty  of  wish- 


36  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

ing  to  marry  before  her  elder  sister,  who  was  unfortun- 
ate enough  to  be  rejected  by  one  mother-in-law  after 
another.  My  uncle  feared  that  the  younger  daughter, 
who  was  of  a  firm  and  masterful  nature,  might  carry  out 
her  plans,  thereby  disgracing  her  unhappy  sister.  Ac- 
cordingly he  hastened  to  conclude  an  alliance  with  a 
family  far  beneath  him,  and  the  girl  was  hastily  married 
to  a  boy  of  whom  little  was  known  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  was  inclined  to  consumption. 

The  consumptive  tendency  was  no  such  horror,  in  an 
age  when  superstition  was  more  in  vogue  than  science. 
For  one  patient  that  went  to  a  physician  in  Polotzk, 
there  were  ten  who  called  in  unlicensed  practitioners 
and  miracle  workers.  If  my  mother  had  an  obstinate 
toothache  that  honored  household  remedies  failed  to 
relieve,  she  went  to  Dvoshe,  the  pious  woman,  who 
cured  by  means  of  a  flint  and  steel,  and  a  secret  prayer 
pronounced  as  the  sparks  flew  up.  During  an  epidemic 
of  scarlet  fever,  we  protected  ourselves  by  wearing  a 
piece  of  red  woolen  tape  around  the  neck.  Pepper  and 
salt  tied  in  a  corner  of  the  pocket  was  effective  in  ward- 
ing off  the  evil  eye.  There  were  lucky  signs,  lucky 
dreams,  spirits,  and  hobgoblins,  a  grisly  collection, 
gathered  by  our  wandering  ancestors  from  the  demon- 
ologies  of  Asia  and  Europe. 

Antiquated  as  our  popular  follies  was  the  organiza- 
tion of  our  small  society.  It  was  a  caste  system  with 
social  levels  sharply  marked  off,  and  families  united  by 
clannish  ties.  The  rich  looked  down  on  the  poor,  the 
merchants  looked  down  on  the  artisans,  and  within  the 
ranks  of  the  artisans  higher  and  lower  grades  were  dis- 
tinguished. A  shoemaker's  daughter  could  not  hope  to 
marry  the  son  of  a  shopkeeper,  unless  she  brought  an 


CHILDREN   OF  THE  LAW  37 

extra  large  dowry;  and  she  had  to  make  up  her  mind  to 
be  snubbed  by  the  sisters-in-law  and  cousins-in-law  all 
her  life. 

One  qualification  only  could  raise  a  man  above  his 
social  level,  and  that  was  scholarship.  A  boy  born  in 
the  gutter  need  not  despair  of  entering  the  houses  of  the 
rich,  if  he  had  a  good  mind  and  a  great  appetite  for  sa- 
cred learning.  A  poor  scholar  would  be  preferred  in  the 
marriage  market  to  a  rich  ignoramus.  In  the  phrase  of 
our  grandmothers,  a  boy  stuffed  with  learning  was  worth 
more  than  a  girl  stuffed  with  bank  notes. 

Simple  piety  unsupported  by  learning  had  a  parallel 
value  in  the  eyes  of  good  families.  This  was  especially 
true  among  the  Hasidim,  the  sect  of  enthusiasts  who  set 
religious  exaltation  above  rabbinical  lore.  Ecstasy  in 
prayer  and  fantastic  merriment  on  days  of  religious  re- 
joicing, raised  a  Hasid  to  a  hero  among  his  kind.  My 
father's  grandfather,  who  knew  of  Hebrew  only  enough 
to  teach  beginners,  was  famous  through  a  good  part  of 
the  Pale  for  his  holy  life.  Israel  Kimanyer  he  was  called, 
from  the  village  of  Kimanye  where  he  lived ;  and  people 
were  proud  to  establish  even  the  most  distant  relation- 
ship with  him.  Israel  was  poor  to  the  verge  of  beggary, 
but  he  prayed  more  than  other  people,  never  failed  in 
the  slightest  observance  enjoined  on  Jews,  shared  his  last 
crust  with  every  chance  beggar,  and  sat  up  nights  to 
commune  with  God.  His  family  connections  included 
country  peddlers,  starving  artisans,  and  ne'er-do-wells; 
but  Israel  was  a  zaddik  —  a  man  of  piety  —  and  the 
fame  of  his  good  life  redeemed  the  whole  wretched  clan. 
When  his  grandson,  my  father,  came  to  marry,  he 
boasted  his  direct  descent  from  Israel  Kimanyer,  and 
picked  his  bride  from  the  best  families. 


38  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

The  little  house  may  still  be  standing  which  the  pious 
Jews  of  Kimanye  and  the  neighboring  villages  built  for 
my  great-grandfather,  close  on  a  century  ago.  He  was 
too  poor  to  build  his  own  house,  so  the  good  people  who 
loved  him,  and  who  were  almost  as  poor  as  he,  collected 
a  few  rubles  among  themselves,  and  bought  a  site,  and 
built  the  house.  Built,  let  it  be  known,  with  their  own 
hands;  for  they  were  too  poor  to  hire  workmen.  They 
carried  the  beams  and  boards  on  their  shoulders,  sing- 
ing and  dancing  on  the  way,  as  they  sang  and  danced  at 
the  presentation  of  a  scroll  to  the  synagogue.  They 
hauled  and  sawed  and  hammered,  till  the  last  nail  was 
driven  home;  and  when  they  conducted  the  holy  man  to 
his  new  abode,  the  rejoicing  was  greater  than  at  the 
crowning  of  a  czar. 

That  little  cabin  was  fit  to  be  preserved  as  the  monu- 
ment to  a  species  of  idealism  that  has  rarely  been  known 
outside  the  Pale.  What  was  the  ultimate  source  of  the 
pious  enthusiasm  that  built  my  great-grandfather's 
house?  What  was  the  substance  behind  the  show  of  the 
Judaism  of  the  Pale?  Stripped  of  its  grotesque  mask  of 
forms,  rites,  and  mediaeval  superstitions,  the  religion  of 
these  fanatics  was  simply  the  belief  that  God  was,  had 
been,  and  ever  would  be,  and  that  they,  the  children  of 
Jacob,  were  His  chosen  messengers  to  carry  His  Law  to 
all  the  nations.  Beneath  the  mountainous  volumes  of 
the  Talmudists  and  commentators,  the  Mosaic  tablets 
remained  intact.  Out  of  the  mazes  of  the  Cabala  the 
pure  doctrine  of  ancient  Judaism  found  its  way  to  the 
hearts  of  the  faithful.  Sects  and  schools  might  rise  and 
fall,  deafening  the  ears  of  the  simple  with  the  clamor  of 
their  disputes,  still  the  Jew,  retiring  within  his  own  soul, 
heard  the  voice  of  the  God  of  Abraham.    Prophets, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAW  39 

messiahs,  miracle  workers  might  have  their  day,  still 
the  Jew  was  conscious  that  between  himself  and  God  no 
go-between  was  needed;  that  he,  as  well  as  every  one  of 
his  million  brothers,  had  his  portion  of  God's  work  to 
do.  And  this  close  relation  to  God  was  the  source  of  the 
strength  that  sustained  the  Jew  through  all  the  trials  of 
his  life  in  the  Pale.  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  the 
Jew  identified  himself  with  the  cause  of  righteousness 
on  earth;  and  hence  the  heroism  with  which  he  met  the 
battalions  of  tyrants. 

No  empty  forms  could  have  impressed  the  unborn 
children  of  the  Pale  so  deeply  that  they  were  prepared 
for  willing  martyrdom  almost  as  soon  as  they  were 
weaned  from  their  mother's  breast.  The  flame  of  the 
•burning  bush  that  had  dazzled  Moses  still  lighted  the 
gloomy  prison  of  the  Pale.  Behind  the  mummeries, 
ceremonials,  and  symbolic  accessories,  the  object  of  the 
Jew's  adoration  was  the  face  of  God. 

This  has  been  many  times  proved  by  those  who  es- 
caped from  the  Pale,  and,  excited  by  sudden  freedom, 
thought  to  rid  themselves,  by  one  impatient  effort,  of 
every  strand  of  their  ancient  bonds.  Eager  to  be  merged 
in  the  better  world  in  which  they  found  themselves,  the 
escaped  prisoners  determined  on  a  change  of  mind,  a 
change  of  heart,  a  change  of  manner.  They  rejoiced  in 
their  transformation,  thinking  that  every  mark  of  their 
former  slavery  was  obliterated.  And  then,  one  day, 
caught  in  the  vise  of  some  crucial  test,  the  Jew  fixed  his 
alarmed  gaze  on  his  inmost  soul,  and  found  there  the 
image  of  his  father's  God. 

Merrily  played  the  fiddlers  at  the  wedding  of  my 
father,  who  was  the  grandson  of  Israel  Kimanyer  of 


40  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

sainted  memory.  The  most  pious  men  in  Polotzk  danced 
the  night  through,  their  earlocks  dangling,  the  tails  of 
their  long  coats  flying  in  a  pious  ecstasy.  Beggars 
swarmed  among  the  bidden  guests,  sure  of  an  easy  har- 
vest where  so  many  hearts  were  melted  by  piety.  The 
wedding  jester  excelled  himself  in  apt  allusions  to  the 
friends  and  relatives  who  brought  up  their  wedding 
presents  at  his  merry  invitation.  The  sixteen-year-old 
bride,  suffocated  beneath  her  heavy  veil,  blushed  un- 
seen at  the  numerous  healths  drunk  to  her  future  sons 
and  daughters.  The  whole  town  was  a-flutter  with  joy, 
because  the  pious  scion  of  a  godly  race  had  found  a 
pious  wife,  and  a  young  branch  of  the  tree  of  Judah  was 
about  to  bear  fruit. 

When  I  came  to  lie  on  my  mother's  breast,  she  sang 
me  lullabies  on  lofty  themes.  I  heard  the  names  of 
Rebecca,  Rachel,  and  Leah  as  early  as  the  names  of 
father,  mother,  and  nurse.  My  baby  soul  was  enthralled 
by  sad  and  noble  cadences,  as  my  mother  sang  of  my 
ancient  home  in  Palestine,  or  mourned  over  the  desola- 
tion of  Zion.  With  the  first  rattle  that  was  placed  in  my 
hand  a  prayer  was  pronounced  over  me,  a  petition  that 
a  pious  man  might  take  me  to  wife,  and  a  messiah  be 
among  my  sons. 

I  was  fed  on  dreams,  instructed  by  means  of  prophe- 
cies, trained  to  hear  and  see  mystical  things  that  callous 
senses  could  not  perceive.  I  was  taught  to  call  myself  a 
princess,  in  memory  of  my  forefathers  who  had  ruled  a 
nation.  Though  I  went  in  the  disguise  of  an  outcast, 
I  felt  a  halo  resting  on  my  brow.  Sat  upon  by  brutal 
enemies,  unjustly  hated,  annihilated  a  hundred  times, 
I  yet  arose  and  held  my  head  high,  sure  that  I  should 
find  my  kingdom  in  the  end,  although  I  had  lost  my  way 


CHILDREN   OF  THE  LAW  41 

in  exile;  for  He  who  had  brought  my  ancestors  safe 
through  a  thousand  perils  was  guiding  my  feet  as  well. 
God  needed  me  and  I  needed  Him,  for  we  two  together 
had  a  work  to  do,  according  to  an  ancient  covenant 
between  Him  and  my  forefathers. 

This  is  the  dream  to  which  I  was  heir,  in  common  with 
every  sad-eyed  child  of  the  Pale.  This  is  the  living  seed 
which  I  found  among  my  heirlooms,  when  I  learned  how 
to  strip  from  them  the  prickly  husk  in  which  they  were 
passed  down  to  me.  And  what  is  the  fruit  of  such  seed 
as  that,  and  whither  lead  such  dreams?  If  it  is  mine  to 
give  the  answer,  let  my  words  be  true  and  brave. 


CHAPTER  III 

BOTH    THEIR   HOUSES 

Among  the  mediaeval  customs  which  were  preserved 
in  the  Pale  when  the  rest  of  the  world  had  long  forgotten 
them  was  the  use  of  popular  sobriquets  in  place  of  sur- 
names proper.  Family  names  existed  only  in  official 
documents,  such  as  passports.  For  the  most  part  peo- 
ple were  known  by  nicknames,  prosaic  or  picturesque, 
derived  from  their  occupations,  their  physical  peculiar- 
ities, or  distinctive  achievements.  Among  my  neigh- 
bors in  Polotzk  were  Yankel  the  Wig-maker,  Mulye  the 
Blind,  Moshe  the  Six-fingered;  and  members  of  their 
respective  families  were  referred  to  by  these  nicknames : 
as,  for  example,  "Mirele,  niece  of  Moshe  the  Six- 
fingered." 

Let  me  spread  out  my  family  tree,  raise  aloft  my  coat- 
of-arms,  and  see  what  heroes  have  left  a  mark  by  which 
I  may  be  distinguished.  Let  me  hunt  for  my  name  in  the 
chronicles  of  the  Pale. 

In  the  village  of  Yuchovitch,  about  sixty  versts  above 
Polotzk,  the  oldest  inhabitant  still  remembered  my 
father's  great-grandfather  when  my  father  was  a  boy. 
Lebe  the  Innkeeper  he  was  called,  and  no  reproach  was 
coupled  with  the  name.  His  son  Hayyim  succeeded  to 
the  business,  but  later  he  took  up  the  glazier's  trade, 
and  developed  a  knack  for  all  sorts  of  tinkering,  whereby 
he  was  able  to  increase  his  too  scanty  earnings. 

Hayyim  the  Glazier  is  reputed  to  have  been  a  man  of 
fine  countenance,  wise  in  homely  counsel,  honest  in  all 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  43 

his  dealings.  Rachel  Leah,  his  wife,  had  a  reputation 
for  practical  wisdom  even  greater  than  his.  She  was 
the  advice  giver  of  the  village  in  every  perplexity  of  life. 
My  father  remembers  his  grandmother  as  a  tall,  trim, 
handsome  old  woman,  active  and  independent.  Satin 
headbands  and  lace-trimmed  bonnets  not  having  been 
invented  in  her  day,  Rachel  Leah  wore  the  stately  knupf 
or  turban  on  her  shaven  head.  On  Sabbaths  and  holi- 
days she  went  to  the  synagogue  with  a  long,  straight 
mantle  hanging  from  neck  to  ankle;  and  she  wore  it  with 
an  air,  on  one  sleeve  only,  the  other  dangling  empty 
from  her  shoulder. 

Hayyim  begat  Joseph,  and  Joseph  begat  Pinchus,  my 
father.  It  behooves  me  to  consider  the  stuff  I  sprang 
from. 

Joseph  inherited  the  trade,  good  name,  and  meagre 
portion  of  his  father,  and  maintained  the  family  tradi- 
tion of  honesty  and  poverty  unbroken  to  the  day  of  his 
death.  For  that  matter,  Yuchovitch  never  heard  of  any 
connection  of  the  family,  not  even  a  doubtful  cousin, 
who  was  not  steeped  to  the  earlocks  in  poverty.  But 
that  was  no  distinction  in  Yuchovitch;  the  whole  vil- 
lage was  poor  almost  to  beggary. 

Joseph  was  an  indifferent  workman,  an  indifferent 
scholar,  and  an  indifferent  hasid.  At  one  thing  only  he 
was  strikingly  good,  and  that  was  at  grumbling.  Al- 
though not  unkind,  he  had  a  temper  that  boiled  over  at 
small  provocation,  and  even  in  his  most  placid  mood  he 
took  very  little  satisfaction  in  the  world.  He  reversed 
the  proverb,  looking  for  the  sable  lining  of  every  silver 
cloud.  In  the  conditions  of  his  life  he  found  plenty  of 
food  for  his  pessimism,  and  merry  hearts  were  very  rare 
among  his  neighbors.    Still  a  certain  amount  of  gloom 


44  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

appears  to  have  been  inherent  in  the  man.  And  as  he 
distrusted  the  whole  world,  so  Joseph  distrusted  himself, 
which  made  him  shy  and  awkward  in  company.  My 
mother  tells  how,  at  the  wedding  of  his  only  son,  my 
father,  Joseph  sat  the  whole  night  through  in  a  corner, 
never  as  much  as  cracking  a  smile,  while  the  wedding 
guests  danced,  laughed,  and  rejoiced. 

It  may  have  been  through  distrust  of  the  marital 
state  that  Joseph  remained  single  till  the  advanced  age 
of  twenty-five.  Then  he  took  unto  himself  an  orphan 
girl  as  poor  as  he,  namely,  Rachel,  the  daughter  of 
Israel  Kimanyer  of  pious  memory. 

My  grandmother  was  such  a  gentle,  cheerful  soul, 
when  I  knew  her,  that  I  imagine  she  must  have  been  a 
merry  bride.  I  should  think  my  grandfather  would  have 
taken  great  satisfaction  in  her  society,  as  her  attempts 
to  show  him  the  world  through  rose-hued  spectacles 
would  have  given  him  frequent  opportunity  to  parade 
his  grievances  and  recite  his  wrongs.  But  from  all  re- 
ports it  appears  that  he  was  never  satisfied,  and  if  he  did 
not  make  his  wife  unhappy  it  was  because  he  was  away 
from  home  so  much.  He  was  absent  the  greater  part  of 
the  time;  for  a  glazier,  even  if  he  were  a  better  workman 
than  my  grandfather,  could  not  make  a  living  in  Yucho- 
vitch.  He  became  a  country  peddler,  trading  between 
Polotzk  and  Yuchovitch,  and  taking  in  all  the  desolate 
little  hamlets  scattered  along  that  route.  Fifteen  rubles' 
worth  of  goods  was  a  big  bill  to  carry  out  of  Polotzk. 
The  stock  consisted  of  cheap  pottery,  tobacco,  matches, 
boot  grease,  and  axle  grease.  These  he  bartered  for 
country  produce,  including  grains  in  small  quantity, 
bristles,  rags,  and  bones.  Money  was  seldom  handled 
in  these  transactions. 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  45 

A  rough  enough  life  my  grandfather  led,  on  the  road 
at  all  seasons,  in  all  weathers,  knocking  about  at  smoky 
little  inns,  glad  sometimes  of  the  hospitality  of  some 
peasant's  hut,  where  the  pigs  slept  with  the  family.  He 
was  doing  well  if  he  got  home  for  the  holidays  with  a 
little  white  flour  for  a  cake,  and  money  enough  to  take 
his  best  coat  out  of  pawn.  The  best  coat,  and  the  can- 
dlesticks, too,  would  be  repawned  promptly  on  the  first 
workday;  for  it  was  not  for  the  like  of  Joseph  of  Yucho- 
vitch  to  live  with  idle  riches  around  him. 

For  the  credit  of  Yuchovitch  it  must  be  recorded 
that  my  grandfather  never  had  to  stay  away  from  the 
synagogue  for  want  of  his  one  decent  coat  to  wear.  His 
neighbor  Isaac,  the  village  money  lender,  never  refused 
to  give  up  the  pledged  articles  on  a  Sabbath  eve,  even 
if  the  money  due  was  not  forthcoming.  Many  Sabbath 
coats  besides  my  grandfather's,  and  many  candlesticks 
besides  my  grandmother's,  passed  most  of  their  exist- 
ence under  Isaac's  roof,  waiting  to  be  redeemed.  But 
on  the  eve  of  Sabbath  or  holiday  Isaac  delivered  them 
to  their  respective  owners,  came  they  empty-handed  or 
otherwise;  and  at  the  expiration  of  the  festival  the  grate- 
ful owners  brought  them  promptly  back,  for  another 
season  of  retirement. 

While  my  grandfather  was  on  the  road,  my  grand- 
mother conducted  her  humble  household  in  a  capable, 
housewifely  way.  Of  her  six  children,  three  died  young, 
leaving  two  daughters  and  an  only  son,  my  father.  My 
grandmother  fed  and  dressed  her  children  the  best  she 
could,  and  taught  them  to  thank  God  for  what  they  had 
not  as  well  as  for  what  they  had.  Piety  was  about  the 
only  positive  doctrine  she  attempted  to  drill  them  in, 
leaving  the  rest  of  their  education  to  life  and  the  rebbe. 


46  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Promptly  when  custom  prescribed,  Pinchus,  the 
petted  only  son,  was  sent  to  heder.  My  grandfather 
being  on  the  road  at  the  time,  my  grandmother  herself 
carried  the  boy  in  her  arms,  as  was  usual  on  the  first 
day.  My  father  distinctly  remembers  that  she  wept 
on  the  way  to  the  heder;  partly,  I  suppose,  from  joy 
at  starting  her  son  on  a  holy  life,  and  partly  from  sad- 
ness at  being  too  poor  to  set  forth  the  wine  and  honey- 
cake  proper  to  the  occasion.  For  Grandma  Rachel, 
schooled  though  she  was  to  pious  contentment,  prob- 
ably had  her  moments  of  human  pettiness  like  the  rest 
of  us. 

My  father  distinguished  himself  for  scholarship  from 
the  first.  Five  years  old  when  he  entered  heder,  at  eleven 
he  was  already  a  yeshibah  bahur  —  a  student  in  the 
seminary.  The  rebbe  never  had  occasion  to  use  the  birch 
on  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  held  him  up  as  an  example 
to  the  dull  or  lazy  pupils,  praised  him  in  the  village,  and 
carried  his  fame  to  Polotzk. 

My  grandmother's  cup  of  pious  joy  was  overfilled. 
Everything  her  boy  did  was  pleasant  in  her  sight,  for 
Pinchus  was  going  to  be  a  scholar,  a  godly  man,  a  credit 
to  the  memory  of  his  renowned  grandfather,  Israel 
Kimanyer.  She  let  nothing  interfere  with  his  schooling. 
When  times  were  bad,  and  her  husband  came  home  with 
his  goods  unsold,  she  borrowed  and  begged,  till  the 
rebbe's  fee  was  produced.  If  bad  luck  continued,  she 
pleaded  with  the  rebbe  for  time.  She  pawned  not  only 
the  candlesticks,  but  her  shawl  and  Sabbath  cap  as 
well,  to  secure  the  scant  rations  that  gave  the  young 
scholar  strength  to  study.  More  than  once  in  the  bitter 
winter,  as  my  father  remembers,  she  carried  him  to 
heder  on  her  back,  because  he  had  no  shoes;  she  herself 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  ,  47 

walking  almost  barefoot  in  the  cruel  snow.  No  sacri- 
fice was  too  great  for  her  in  the  pious  cause  of  her  boy's 
education.  And  when  there  was  no  rebbe  in  Yucho- 
vitch  learned  enough  to  guide  him  in  the  advanced 
studies,  my  father  was  sent  to  Polotzk,  where  he  lived 
with  his  poor  relations,  who  were  not  too  poor  to  help 
support  a  future  rebbe  or  rav.  In  Polotzk  he  continued 
to  distinguish  himself  for  scholarship,  till  people  began 
to  prophesy  that  he  would  live  to  be  famous;  and  every- 
body who  remembered  Israel  Kimanyer  regarded  the 
promising  grandson  with  double  respect. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  my  father  was  qualified  to  teach 
beginners  in  Hebrew,  and  he  was  engaged  as  instructor 
in  two  families  living  six  versts  apart  in  the  country. 
The  boy  tutor  had  to  make  himself  useful,  after  lesson 
hours,  by  caring  for  the  horse,  hauling  water  from  the 
frozen  pond,  and  lending  a  hand  at  everything.  When 
the  little  sister  of  one  of  his  pupils  died,  in  the  middle  of 
the  winter,  it  fell  to  my  father's  lot  to  take  the  body  to 
the  nearest  Jewish  cemetery,  through  miles  of  desolate 
country,  no  living  soul  accompanying  him. 

After  one  term  of  this,  he  tried  to  go  on  with  his  own 
studies,  sometimes  in  Yuchovitch,  sometimes  in  Polotzk, 
as  opportunity  dictated.  He  made  the  journey  to  Po- 
lotzk beside  his  father,  jogging  along  in  the  springless 
wagon  on  the  rutty  roads.  He  took  a  boy's  pleasure  in 
the  gypsy  life,  the  green  wood,  and  the  summer  storm; 
while  his  father  sat  moody  beside  him,  seeing  nothing 
but  the  spavins  on  the  horse's  hocks,  and  the  mud  in  the 
road  ahead. 

There  is  little  else  to  tell  of  my  father's  boyhood,  as 
most  of  his  time  was  spent  in  the  schoolroom.  Outside 
the  schoolroom  he  was  conspicuous  for  high  spirits  in 


48  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

play,  daring  in  mischief,  and  independence  in  every- 
thing. But  a  boy's  playtime  was  so  short  in  Yucho- 
vitch,  and  his  resources  so  limited,  that  even  a  lad  of 
spirit  came  to  the  edge  of  his  premature  manhood  with- 
out a  regret  for  his  nipped  youth.  So  my  father,  at  the 
age  of  sixteen  and  a  half,  lent  a  willing  ear  to  the  cooing 
voice  of  the  marriage  broker. 

Indeed,  it  was  high  time  for  him  to  marry.  His  par- 
ents had  kept  him  so  far,  but  they  had  two  daughters  to 
marry  off,  and  not  a  groschen  laid  by  for  their  dowries. 
The  cost  of  my  father's  schooling,  as  he  advanced,  had 
mounted  to  seventeen  rubles  a  term,  and  the  poor  rebbe 
was  seldom  paid  in  full.  Of  course  my  father's  scholar- 
ship was  his  fortune  —  in  time  it  would  be  his  support; 
but  in  the  meanwhile  the  burden  of  feeding  and  cloth- 
ing him  lay  heavy  on  his  parents'  shoulders.  The  time 
had  come  to  find  him  a  well-to-do  father-in-law,  who 
should  support  him  and  his  wife  and  children,  while  he 
continued  to  study  in  the  seminary. 

After  the  usual  conferences  between  parents  and  mar- 
riage brokers,  my  father  was  betrothed  to  an  under- 
taker's daughter  in  Polotzk.  The  girl  was  too  old,  — 
every  day  of  twenty  years,  —  but  three  hundred  rubles 
in  dowry,  with  board  after  marriage,  not  to  mention 
handsome  presents  to  the  bridegroom,  easily  offset  the 
bride's  age.  My  father's  family,  to  the  humblest  cousin, 
felt  themselves  set  up  by  the  match  he  had  made;  and 
the  boy  was  happy  enough,  displaying  a  watch  and 
chain  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  a  good  coat  on 
week  days.  As  for  his  fiancee,  he  could  have  no  objec- 
tion to  her,  as  he  had  seen  her  only  at  a  distance,  and 
had  never  spoken  to  her. 

When  it  was  time  for  the  wedding  preparations  to  be- 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  49 

gin,  news  came  to  Yuchovitch  of  the  death  of  the  bride- 
elect,  and  my  father's  prospects  seemed  fallen  to  the 
ground.  But  the  undertaker  had  another  daughter,  a 
girl  of  thirteen,  and  he  pressed  my  father  to  take  her  in 
her  sister's  place.  At  the  same  time  the  marriage  broker 
proposed  another  match;  and  my  father's  poor  cousins 
bristled  with  importance  once  more. 

Somehow  or  other  my  father  succeeded  in  getting  in 
a  word  at  the  family  councils  that  ensued;  he  even  had 
the  temerity  to  express  a  strong  preference.  He  did  not 
want  any  more  of  the  undertaker's  daughters;  he  wanted 
to  consider  the  rival  match.  There  were  no  serious 
objections  from  the  cousins,  and  my  father  became 
engaged  to  my  mother. 

This  second  choice  was  Hannah  Hayye,  only  daughter 
of  Raphael,  called  the  Russian.  She  had  had  a  very 
different  bringing-up  from  Pinchus,  the  grandson  of 
Israel  Kimanyer.  She  had  never  known  a  day  of  want; 
had  never  gone  barefoot  from  necessity.  The  family 
had  a  solid  position  in  Polotzk,  her  father  being  the 
owner  of  a  comfortable  home  and  a  good  business. 

Prosperity  is  prosaic,  so  I  shall  skip  briefly  over  the 
history  of  my  mother's  house. 

My  grandfather  Raphael,  early  left  an  orphan,  was 
brought  up  by  an  elder  brother,  in  a  village  at  no  great 
distance  from  Polotzk.  The  brother  dutifully  sent  him 
to  heder,  and  at  an  early  age  betrothed  him  to  Deborah, 
daughter  of  one  Solomon,  a  dealer  in  grain  and  cattle. 
Deborah  was  not  yet  in  her  teens  at  the  time  of  the  be- 
trothal, and  so  foolish  was  she  that  she  was  afraid  of  her 
affianced  husband.  One  day,  when  she  was  coming  from 
the  store  with  a  bottle  of  liquid  yeast,  she  suddenly 
came  face  to  face  with  her  betrothed,  which  gave  her 


50  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

such  a  fright  that  she  dropped  the  bottle,  spilling  the 
yeast  on  her  pretty  dress ;  and  she  ran  home  crying  all  the 
way.  At  thirteen  she  was  married,  which  had  a  good 
effect  on  her  deportment.  I  hear  no  more  of  her  running 
away  from  her  husband. 

Among  the  interesting  things  belonging  to  my  grand- 
mother, besides  her  dowry,  at  the  time  of  the  marriage, 
was  her  family.  Her  father  was  so  original  that  he  kept 
a  tutor  for  his  daughters  —  sons  he  had  none  —  and 
allowed  them  to  be  instructed  in  the  rudiments  of  three 
or  four  languages  and  the  elements  of  arithmetic.  Even 
more  unconventional  was  her  sister  Hode.  She  had 
married  a  fiddler,  who  travelled  constantly,  playing  at 
hotels  and  inns,  all  through  "far  Russia."  Having  no 
children,  she  ought  to  have  spent  her  days  in  fasting 
and  praying  and  lamenting.  Instead  of  this,  she  accom- 
panied her  husband  on  his  travels,  and  even  had  a  heart 
to  enjoy  the  excitement  and  variety  of  their  restless  life. 
I  should  be  the  last  to  blame  my  great-aunt,  for  the 
irregularity  of  her  conduct  afforded  my  grandfather  the 
opening  for  his  career,  the  fruits  of  which  made  my  child- 
hood so  pleasant.  For  several  years  my  grandfather 
travelled  in  Hode's  train,  in  the  capacity  of  shohat 
providing  kosher  meat  for  the  little  troup  in  the  un- 
holy wilds  of  "far  Russia";  and  the  grateful  couple 
rewarded  him  so  generously  that  he  soon  had  a  fortune 
of  eighty  rubles  laid  by. 

My  grandfather  thought  the  time  had  now  come  to 
settle  down,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  invest  his 
wealth.  To  resolve  his  perplexity,  he  made  a  pilgrim- 
age to  the  Rebbe  of  Kopistch,  who  advised  him  to  open 
a  store  in  Polotzk,  and  gave  him  a  blessed  groschen  to 
keep  in  the  money  drawer  for  good  luck. 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  51 

The  blessing  of  the  "good  Jew"  proved  fruitful.  My 
grandfather's  business  prospered,  and  my  grandmother 
bore  him  children,  several  sons  and  one  daughter.  The 
sons  were  sent  to  heder,  like  all  respectable  boys;  and 
they  were  taught,  in  addition,  writing  and  arithmetic, 
enough  for  conducting  a  business.  With  this  my  grand- 
father was  content;  more  than  this  he  considered  in- 
compatible with  piety.  He  was  one  of  those  who  strenu- 
ously opposed  the  influence  of  the  public  school,  and 
bribed  the  government  officials  to  keep  their  children's 
names  off  the  register  of  schoolboys,  as  we  have  al- 
ready seen.  When  he  sent  his  sons  to  a  private  tutor, 
where  they  could  study  Russian  with  their  hats  on,  he 
felt,  no  doubt,  that  he  was  giving  them  all  the  educa- 
tion necessary  to  a  successful  business  career,  without 
violating  piety  too  grossly. 

If  reading  and  writing  were  enough  for  the  sons,  even 
less  would  suffice  the  daughter.  A  female  teacher  was 
engaged  for  my  mother,  at  three  kopecks  a  week,  to 
teach  her  the  Hebrew  prayers;  and  my  grandmother, 
herself  a  better  scholar  than  the  teacher,  taught  her 
writing  in  addition.  My  mother  was  quick  to  learn,  and 
expressed  an  ambition  to  study  Russian.  She  teased 
and  coaxed,  and  her  mother  pleaded  for  her,  till  my 
grandfather  was  persuaded  to  send  her  to  a  tutor.  But 
the  fates  were  opposed  to  my  mother's  education.  On 
the  first  day  at  school,  a  sudden  inflammation  of  the 
eyes  blinded  my  mother  temporarily,  and  although  the 
distemper  vanished  as  suddenly  as  it  had  appeared,  it 
was  taken  as  an  omen,  and  my  mother  was  not  allowed 
to  return  to  her  lessons. 

Still  she  did  not  give  up.  She  saved  up  every  groschen 
that  was  given  her  to  buy  sweets,  and  bribed  her  brother 


52  '  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Solomon,  who  was  proud  of  his  scholarship,  to  give  her 
lessons  in  secret.  The  two  strove  earnestly  with  book 
and  quill,  in  their  hiding-place  under  the  rafters,  till  my 
mother  could  read  and  write  Russian,  and  translate  a 
simple  passage  of  Hebrew. 

My  grandmother,  although  herself  a  good  housewife, 
took  no  pains  to  teach  her  only  daughter  the  domestic 
arts.  She  only  petted  and  coddled  her  and  sent  her  out 
to  play.  But  my  mother  was  as  ambitious  about  house- 
work as  about  books.  She  coaxed  the  housemaid  to  let 
her  mix  the  bread.  She  learned  knitting  from  watching 
her  playmates.  She  was  healthy  and  active,  quick  at 
everything,  and  restless  with  unspent  energy.  Therefore 
she  was  quite  willing,  at  the  age  of  ten,  to  go  into  her 
father's  business  as  his  chief  assistant. 

As  the  years  went  by  she  developed  a  decided  talent 
for  business,  so  that  her  father  could  safely  leave  all  his 
affairs  in  her  hands  if  he  had  to  go  out  of  town.  Her 
devotion,  ability,  and  tireless  energy  made  her,  in  time, 
indispensable.  My  grandfather  was  obliged  to  admit 
that  the  little  learning  she  had  stolen  was  turned  to  good 
account,  when  he  saw  how  well  she  could  keep  his  books, 
and  how  smoothly  she  got  along  with  Russian  and  Polish 
customers.  Perhaps  that  was  the  argument  that  in- 
duced him,  after  obstinate  years,  to  remove  his  veto 
from  my  mother's  petitions  and  let  her  take  up  lessons 
again.  For  while  piety  was  my  grandfather's  chief  con- 
cern on  the  godly  side,  on  the  worldly  side  he  set  success 
in  business  above  everything. 

My  mother  was  fifteen  years  old  when  she  entered  on 
a  career  of  higher  education.  For  two  hours  daily  she 
was  released  from  the  store,  and  in  that  interval  she 
strove  with  might   and  main  to   conquer  the   world 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  53 

of  knowledge.  Katrina  Petrovna,  her  teacher,  praised 
and  encouraged  her;  and  there  was  no  reason  why  the 
promising  pupil  should  not  have  developed  into  a  young 
lady  of  culture,  with  Madame  teaching  Russian,  Ger- 
man, crocheting,  and  singing — yes,  out  of  a  book,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  clavier  —  all  for  a  fee  of  seventy- 
five  kopecks  a  week. 

Did  I  say  there  was  no  reason?  And  what  about  the 
marriage  broker?  Hannah  Hayye,  the  only  daughter 
of  Raphael  the  Russian,  going  on  sixteen,  buxom,  bright, 
capable,  and  well  educated,  could  not  escape  the  eye  of  the 
shadchan.  A  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  let  such  a  likely 
girl  grow  old  over  a  book!  To  the  canopy  with  her, 
while  she  could  fetch  the  highest  price  in  the  marriage 
market ! 

My  mother  was  very  unwilling  to  think  of  marriage 
at  this  time.  She  had  nothing  to  gain  by  marriage,  for 
already  she  had  everything  that  she  desired,  especially 
since  she  was  permitted  to  study.  While  her  father  was 
rather  stern,  her  mother  spoiled  and  petted  her;  and 
she  was  the  idol  of  her  aunt  Hode,  the  fiddler's  wife. 

Hode  had  bought  a  fine  estate  in  Polotzk,  after  my 
grandfather  settled  there,  and  made  it  her  home  when- 
ever she  became  tired  of  travelling.  She  lived  in  state, 
with  many  servants  and  dependents,  wearing  silk 
dresses  on  week  days,  and  setting  silver  plate  before  the 
meanest  guest.  The  women  of  Polotzk  were  breathless 
over  her  wardrobe,  counting  up  how  many  pairs  of  em- 
broidered boots  she  had,  at  fifteen  rubles  a  pair.  And 
Hode's  manners  were  as  much  a  subject  of  gossip  as  her 
clothes,  for  she  had  picked  up  strange  ways  in  her  trav- 
els. Although  she  was  so  pious  that  she  was  never 
tempted  to  eat  trefah,  no  matter  if  she  had  to  go  hungry, 


54  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

her  conduct  in  other  respects  was  not  strictly  orthodox. 
For  one  thing,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  shaking  hands 
with  men,  looking  them  straight  in  the  face.  She  spoke 
Russian  like  a  Gentile,  she  kept  a  poodle,  and  she  had 
no  children. 

Nobody  meant  to  blame  the  rich  woman  for  being 
childless,  because  it  was  well  known  in  Polotzk  that 
Hode  the  Russian,  as  she  was  called,  would  have  given 
all  her  wealth  for  one  scrawny  baby.  But  she  was  to 
blame  for  voluntarily  exiling  herself  from  Jewish  society 
for  years  at  a  time,  to  live  among  pork-eaters,  and  copy 
the  bold  ways  of  Gentile  women.  And  so  while  they 
pitied  her  childlessness,  the  women  of  Polotzk  regarded 
her  misfortune  as  perhaps  no  more  than  a  due  punish- 
ment. 

Hode,  poor  woman,  felt  a  hungry  heart  beneath  her 
satin  robes.  She  wanted  to  adopt  one  of  my  grand- 
mother's children,  but  my  grandmother  would  not  hear 
of  it.  Hode  was  particularly  taken  with  my  mother,  and 
my  grandmother,  in  compassion,  loaned  her  the  child 
for  days  at  a  time;  and  those  were  happy  days  for  both 
aunt  and  niece.  Hode  would  treat  my  mother  to  every 
delicacy  in  her  sumptuous  pantry,  tell  her  wonderful 
tales  of  life  in  distant  parts,  show  her  all  her  beautiful 
dresses  and  jewels,  and  load  her  with  presents. 

As  my  mother  developed  into  girlhood,  her  aunt  grew 
more  and  more  covetous  of  her.  Following  a  secret  plan, 
she  adopted  a  boy  from  the  poorhouse,  and  brought  him 
up  with  every  advantage  that  money  could  buy.  My 
mother,  on  her  visits,  was  thrown  a  great  deal  into  this 
boy's  society,  but  she  liked  him  less  than  the  poodle. 
This  grieved  her  aunt,  who  cherished  in  her  heart  the 
hope  that  my  mother  would  marry  her  adopted  son,  and 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  55 

so  become  her  daughter  after  all.  And  in  order  to  ac- 
custom her  to  think  well  of  the  match,  Hode  dinned  the 
boy's  name  in  my  mother's  ears  day  and  night,  praising 
him  and  showing  him  off.  She  would  open  her  jewel 
boxes  and  take  out  the  flashing  diamonds,  heavy  chains, 
and  tinkling  bracelets,  dress  my  mother  in  them  in  front 
of  the  mirror,  telling  her  that  they  would  all  be  hers  — 
all  her  own  —  when  she  became  the  bride  of  Mulke. 

My  mother  still  describes  the  necklace  of  pearls  and 
diamonds  which  her  aunt  used  to  clasp  around  her 
plump  throat,  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  is  reminiscent 
of  girlish  pleasure.  But  to  all  her  aunt's  teasing  refer- 
ences to  the  future,  my  mother  answered  with  a  giggle 
and  a  shake  of  her  black  curls,  and  went  on  enjoying 
herself,  thinking  that  the  day  of  judgment  was  very, 
very  far  away.  But  it  swooped  down  on  her  sooner  than 
she  expected  —  the  momentous  hour  when  she  must 
choose  between  the  pearl  necklace  with  Mulke  and  a 
penniless  stranger  from  Yuchovitch  who  was  reputed  to 
be  a  fine  scholar. 

Mulke  she  would  not  have  even  if  all  the  pearls  in  the 
ocean  came  with  him.  The  boy  was  stupid  and  un- 
teachable,  and  of  unspeakable  origin.  Picked  up  from 
the  dirty  floor  of  the  poorhouse,  his  father  was  identified 
as  the  lazy  porter  who  sometimes  chopped  a  cord  of 
wood  for  my  grandmother;  and  his  sisters  were  slovenly 
housemaids  scattered  through  Polotzk.  No,  Mulke  was 
not  to  be  considered.  But  why  consider  anybody?  Why 
think  of  a  hossen  at  all,  when  she  was  so  content?  My 
mother  ran  away  every  time  the  shadchan  came,  and 
she  begged  to  be  left  as  she  was,  and  cried,  and  invoked 
her  mother's  support.  But  her  mother,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  history,  refused  to  take  the  daughter's  part. 


56  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

She  joined  the  enemy  —  the  family  and  the  shadchan 
—  and  my  mother  saw  that  she  was  doomed. 

Of  course  she  submitted.  What  else  could  a  dutiful 
daughter  do,  in  Polotzk?  She  submitted  to  being 
weighed,  measured,  and  appraised  before  her  face,  and 
resigned  herself  to  what  was  to  come. 

When  that  which  was  to  come  did  come,  she  did  not 
recognize  it.  She  was  all  alone  in  the  store  one  day,  when 
a  beardless  young  man,  in  top  boots  that  wanted  grease, 
and  a  coat  too  thin  for  the  weather,  came  in  for  a  pack- 
age of  cigarettes.  My  mother  climbed  up  on  the  counter, 
with  one  foot  on  a  shelf,  to  reach  down  the  cigarettes. 
The  customer  gave  her  the  right  change,  and  went  out. 
And  my  mother  never  suspected  that  that  was  the  pro- 
posed hossen,  who  came  to  look  her  over  and  see  if  she 
was  likely  to  last.  For  my  father  considered  himself  a 
man  of  experience  now,  this  being  his  second  match,  and 
he  was  determined  to  have  a  hand  in  this  affair  himself. 

No  sooner  was  the  hossen  out  of  the  store  than  his 
mother,  also  unknown  to  the  innocent  storekeeper, 
came  in  for  a  pound  of  tallow  candles.  She  offered  a 
torn  bill  in  payment,  and  my  mother  accepted  it  and 
gave  change;  showing  that  she  was  wise  enough  in 
money  matters  to  know  that  a  torn  bill  was  good  cur- 
rency. 

After  the  woman  there  shuffled  in  a  poor  man  evi- 
dently from  the  country,  who,  in  a  shy  and  yet  chal- 
lenging manner,  asked  for  a  package  of  cheap  tobacco. 
My  mother  produced  the  goods  with  her  usual  dispatch, 
gave  the  correct  change,  and  stood  at  attention  for  more 
trade. 

Parents  and  son  held  a  council  around  the  corner,  the 
object  of  their  espionage  never  dreaming  that  she  had 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  57 

been  put  to  a  triple  test  and  not  found  wanting.  But 
in  the  evening  of  the  same  day  she  was  enlightened. 
She  was  summoned  to  her  elder  brother's  house,  for  a 
conference  on  the  subject  of  the  proposed  match,  and 
there  she  found  the  young  man  who  had  bought  the 
cigarettes.  For  my  mother's  family,  if  they  forced  her 
to  marry,  were  willing  to  make  her  path  easier  by  letting 
her  meet  the  hossen,  convinced  that  she  must  be  won 
over  by  his  good  looks  and  learned  conversation. 

It  does  not  really  matter  how  my  mother  felt,  as  she 
sat,  with  a  protecting  niece  in  her  lap,  at  one  end  of  a 
long  table,  with  the  hossen  fidgeting  at  the  other  end. 
The  marriage  contract  would  be  written  anyway,  no 
matter  what  she  thought  of  the  hossen.  And  the  con- 
tract was  duly  written,  in  the  presence  of  the  assembled 
families  of  both  parties,  after  plenty  of  open  discus- 
sion, in  which  everybody  except  the  prospective  bride 
and  groom  had  a  voice. 

One  voice  in  particular  broke  repeatedly  into  the  con- 
sultations of  the  parents  and  the  shadchan,  and  that  was 
the  voice  of  Henne  Rosel,  one  of  my  father's  numerous 
poor  cousins.  Henne  Rosel  was  not  unknown  to  my 
mother.  She  often  came  to  the  store,  to  beg,  under  pre- 
tence of  borrowing,  a  little  flour  or  sugar  or  a  stick  of 
cinnamon.  On  the  occasion  of  the  betrothal  she  had 
arrived  late,  dressed  in  indescribable  odds  and  ends,  with 
an  artificial  red  flower  stuck  into  her  frowzy  wig.  She 
pushed  and  elbowed  her  way  to  the  middle  of  the  table, 
where  the  shadchan  sat  ready  with  paper  and  ink  to  take 
down  the  articles  of  the  contract.  On  every  point  she 
had  some  comment  to  make,  till  a  dispute  arose  over  a 
note  which  my  grandfather  offered  as  part  of  the  dowry, 
the  hossen 's  people  insisting  on  cash.  No  one  insisted  so 


58  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

loudly  as  the  cousin  with  the  red  flower  in  her  wig;  and 
when  the  other  cousins  seemed  about  to  weaken  and 
accept  the  note,  Red-Flower  stood  up  and  exhorted 
them  to  be  firm,  lest  their  flesh  and  blood  be  cheated 
under  their  noses.  The  meddlesome  cousin  was  si- 
lenced at  last,  the  contract  was  signed,  the  happiness  of 
the  engaged  couple  was  pledged  in  wine,  the  guests  dis- 
persed. And  all  this  while  my  mother  had  not  opened 
her  mouth,  and  my  father  had  scarcely  been  heard. 

That  is  the  way  my  fate  was  sealed.  It  gives  me  a 
shudder  of  wonder  to  think  what  a  narrow  escape  I  had; 
I  came  so  near  not  being  born  at  all.  If  the  beggarly 
cousin  with  the  frowzy  wig  had  prevailed  upon  her  fam- 
ily and  broken  off  the  match,  then  my  mother  would  not 
have  married  my  father,  and  I  should  at  this  moment 
be  an  unborn  possibility  in  a  philosopher's  brain.  It  is 
right  that  I  should  pick  my  words  most  carefully,  and 
meditate  over  every  comma,  because  I  am  describing 
miracles  too  great  for  careless  utterance.  If  I  had  died 
after  my  first  breath,  my  history  would  still  be  worth 
recording.  For  before  I  could  lie  on  my  mother's  breast, 
the  earth  had  to  be  prepared,  and  the  stars  had  to  take 
their  places;  a  million  races  had  to  die,  testing  the  laws 
of  life;  and  a  boy  and  girl  had  to  be  bound  for  life  to 
watch  together  for  my  coming.  I  was  millions  of  years 
on  the  way,  and  I  came  through  the  seas  of  chance,  over 
the  fiery  mountain  of  law,  by  the  zigzag  path  of  human 
possibility.  Multitudes  were  pushed  back  into  the  abyss 
of  non-existence,  that  I  should  have  way  to  creep  into 
being.  And  at  the  last,  when  I  stood  at  the  gate  of  life, 
a  weazen-faced  fishwife,  who  had  not  wit  enough  to 
support  herself,  came  near  shutting  me  out. 

Such  creatures  of  accident  are  we,  liable  to  a  thousand 


BOTH  THEIR  HOUSES  59 

deaths  before  we  are  born.  But  once  we  are  here,  we 
may  create  our  own  world,  if  we  choose.  Since  I  have 
stood  on  my  own  feet,  I  have  never  met  my  master.  For 
every  time  I  choose  a  friend  I  determine  my  fate  anew. 
I  can  think  of  no  cataclysm  that  could  have  the  force 
to  move  me  from  my  path.  Fire  or  flood  or  the  envy  of 
men  may  tear  the  roof  off  my  house,  but  my  soul  would 
still  be  at  home  under  the  lofty  mountain  pines  that  dip 
their  heads  in  star  dust.  Even  life,  that  was  so  difficult 
to  attain,  may  serve  me  merely  as  a  wayside  inn,  if  I 
choose  to  go  on  eternally.  However  I  came  here,  it  is 
mine  to  be. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DAILY   BREAD 

My  mother  ought  to  have  been  happy  in  her  engage- 
ment. Everybody  congratulated  her  on  securing  such 
a  scholar,  her  parents  loaded  her  with  presents,  and  her 
friends  envied  her.  It  is  true  that  the  hossen's  family 
consisted  entirely  of  poor  relations;  there  was  not  one 
solid  householder  among  them.  From  the  worldly  point 
of  view  my  mother  made  a  mesalliance.  But  as  one  of 
my  aunts  put  it,  when  my  mother  objected  to  the  asso- 
ciation with  the  undesirable  cousins,  she  could  take  out 
the  cow  and  set  fire  to  the  barn;  meaning  that  she  could 
rejoice  in  the  hossen  and  disregard  his  family. 

The  hossen,  on  his  part,  had  reason  to  rejoice,  without 
any  reservations.  He  was  going  into  a  highly  respect- 
able family,  with  a  name  supported  by  property  and 
business  standing.  The  promised  dowry  was  consider- 
able, the  presents  were  generous,  the  trousseau  would  be 
liberal,  and  the  bride  was  fair  and  capable.  The  bride- 
groom would  have  years  before  him  in  which  he  need 
do  nothing  but  eat  free  board,  wear  his  new  clothes,  and 
study  Torah;  and  his  poor  relations  could  hold  up  their 
heads  at  the  market  stalls,  and  in  the  rear  pews  in  the 
synagogue. 

My  mother's  trousseau  was  all  that  a  mother-in-law 
could  wish.  The  best  tailor  in  Polotzk  was  engaged  to 
make  the  cloaks  and  gowns,  and  his  shop  was  filled  to 
bursting  with  ample  lengths  of  velvet  and  satin  and  silk. 
The  wedding  gown  alone  cost  every  kopeck  of  fifty 


DAILY   BREAD  61 

rubles,  as  the  tailor's  wife  reported  all  over  Polotzk.  The 
lingerie  was  of  the  best,  and  the  seamstress  was  engaged 
on  it  for  many  weeks.  Featherbeds,  linen,  household 
goods  of  every  sort  —  everything  was  provided  in 
abundance.  My  mother  crocheted  many  yards  of  lace 
to  trim  the  best  sheets,  and  fine  silk  coverlets  adorned 
the  plump  beds.  Many  a  marriageable  maiden  who 
came  to  view  the  trousseau  went  home  to  prink  and 
blush  and  watch  for  the  shadchan. 

The  wedding  was  memorable  for  gayety  and  splendor. 
The  guests  included  some  of  the  finest  people  in  Polotzk; 
for  while  my  grandfather  was  not  quite  at  the  top  of  the 
social  scale,  he  had  business  connections  with  those  that 
were,  and  they  all  turned  out  for  the  wedding  of  his  only 
daughter,  the  men  in  silk  frock  coats,  the  women  in  all 
their  jewelry. 

The  bridegroom's  aunts  and  cousins  came  in  full 
force.  Wedding  messengers  had  been  sent  to  every 
person  who  could  possibly  claim  relationship  with  the 
hossen.  My  mother's  parents  were  too  generous  to 
slight  the  lowliest.  Instead  of  burning  the  barn,  they  did 
all  they  could  to  garnish  it.  One  or  two  of  the  more  im- 
portant of  the  poor  relations  came  to  the  wedding  in 
gowns  paid  for  by  my  rich  grandfather.  The  rest  came 
decked  out  in  borrowed  finery,  or  in  undisguised  shabbi- 
ness.  But  nobody  thought  of  staying  away  —  except 
the  obstructive  cousin  who  had  nearly  prevented  the 
match. 

When  it  was  time  to  conduct  the  bride  to  the  wedding 
canopy,  the  bridegroom's  mother  missed  Henne  Rosel. 
The  house  was  searched  for  her,  but  in  vain.  Nobody 
had  seen  her.  But  my  grandmother  could  not  bear  to 
have  the  marriage  solemnized  in  the  absence  of  a  first 


62  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

cousin.  Such  a  wedding  as  this  was  not  likely  to  be 
repeated  in  her  family;  it  would  be  a  great  pity  if  any 
of  the  relatives  missed  it.  So  she  petitioned  the  princi- 
pals to  delay  the  ceremony,  while  she  herself  went  in 
search  of  the  missing  cousin. 

Clear  over  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  town  she  walked, 
lifting  her  gala  dress  well  above  her  ankles.  She  found 
Henne  Rosel  in  her  untidy  kitchen,  sound  in  every  limb 
but  sulky  in  spirit.  My  grandmother  exclaimed  at  her 
conduct,  and  bade  her  hurry  with  her  toilet,  and  accom- 
pany her;  the  wedding  guests  were  waiting;  the  bride 
was  faint  from  prolonging  her  fast.  But  Henne  Rosel 
flatly  refused  to  go;  the  bride  might  remain  an  old  maid, 
for  all  she,  Henne  Rosel,  cared  about  the  wedding.  My 
troubled  grandmother  expostulated,  questioned  her, 
till  she  drew  out  the  root  of  the  cousin's  sulkiness. 
Henne  Rosel  complained  that  she  had  not  been  pro- 
perly invited.  The  wedding  messenger  had  come,  — 
oh,  yes !  —  but  she  had  not  addressed  her  as  flatteringly, 
as  respectfully  as  she  had  been  heard  to  address  the  wife 
of  Yohem,  the  money-lender.  And  Henne  Rosel  was  n't 
going  to  any  weddings  where  she  was  not  wanted.  My 
grandmother  had  a  struggle  of  it,  but  she  succeeded  in 
soothing  the  sensitive  cousin,  who  consented  at  length 
to  don  her  best  dress  and  go  to  the  wedding. 

While  my  grandmother  labored  with  Henne  Rosel, 
the  bride  sat  in  state  in  her  father's  house  under  the 
hill,  the  maidens  danced,  and  the  matrons  fanned 
themselves,  while  the  fiddlers  and  zimblers  scraped  and 
tinkled.  But  as  the  hours  went  by,  the  matrons  became 
restless  and  the  dancers  wearied.  The  poor  relations 
grew  impatient  for  the  feast,  and  the  babies  in  their 
laps  began  to  fidget  and  cry;  while  the  bride  grew  faint, 


DAILY  BREAD  63 

and  the  bridegroom's  party  began  to  send  frequent 
messengers  from  the  house  next  door,  demanding  to 
know  the  cause  of  the  delay.  Some  of  the  guests  at  last 
lost  all  patience,  and  begged  leave  to  go  home.  But  be- 
fore they  went  they  deposited  the  wedding  presents  in 
the  bride's  satin  lap,  till  she  resembled  a  heathen  image 
hung  about  with  offerings. 

My  mother,  after  thirty  years  of  bustling  life,  retains 
a  lively  memory  of  the  embarrassment  she  suffered 
while  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  troublesome  cousin. 
When  that  important  dame  at  last  appeared,  with  her 
chin  in  the  air,  the  artificial  flower  still  stuck  belliger- 
ently into  her  dusty  wig,  and  my  grandmother  beaming 
behind  her,  the  bride's  heart  fairly  jumped  with  anger, 
and  the  red  blood  of  indignation  set  her  cheeks  afire. 
No  wonder  that  she  speaks  the  name  of  the  Red-Flower 
with  an  unloving  accent  to  this  day,  although  she  has 
forgiven  the  enemies  who  did  her  greater  wrong.  The 
bride  is  a  princess  on  her  wedding  day.  To  put  upon  her 
an  indignity  is  an  unpardonable  offense. 

After  the  feasting  and  dancing,  which  lasted  a  whole 
week,  the  wedding  presents  were  locked  up,  the  bride, 
with  her  hair  discreetly  covered,  returned  to  her  father's 
store,  and  the  groom,  with  his  new  praying-shawl,  re- 
paired to  the  synagogue.  This  was  all  according  to  the 
marriage  bargain,  which  implied  that  my  father  was  to 
study  and  pray  and  fill  the  house  with  the  spirit  of 
piety,  in  return  for  board  and  lodging  and  the  devotion 
of  his  wife  and  her  entire  family. 

All  the  parties  concerned  had  entered  into  this  bar- 
gain in  good  faith,  so  far  as  they  knew  their  own  minds. 
But  the  eighteen-year-old  bridegroom,  before  many 
months  had  passed,  began  to  realize  that  he  felt  no  such 


64  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

hunger  for  the  word  of  the  Law  as  he  was  supposed  to 
feel.  He  felt,  rather,  a  hunger  for  life  that  all  his  study- 
ing did  not  satisfy.  He  was  not  trained  enough  to  ana- 
lyze his  own  thoughts  to  any  purpose;  he  was  not  experi- 
enced enough  to  understand  where  his  thoughts  were 
leading  him.  He  only  knew  that  he  felt  no  call  to  pray 
and  fast,  that  the  Torah  did  not  inspire  him,  and  his 
days  were  blank.  The  life  he  was  expected  to  lead  grew 
distasteful  to  him,  and  yet  he  knew  no  other  way  to  live. 
He  became  lax  in  his  attendance  at  the  synagogue,  in- 
curring the  reproach  of  the  family.  It  began  to  be 
rumored  among  the  studious  that  the  son-in-law  of 
Raphael  the  Russian  was  not  devoting  himself  to  the 
sacred  books  with  any  degree  of  enthusiasm.  It  was 
well  known  that  he  had  a  good  mind,  but  evidently  the 
spirit  was  lacking.  My  grandparents  went  from  sur- 
prise to  indignation,  from  exhortation  they  passed  to 
recrimination.  Before  my  parents  had  been  married 
half  a  year,  my  grandfather's  house  was  divided  against 
itself,  and  my  mother  was  torn  between  the  two  factions. 
For  while  she  sympathized  with  her  parents,  and  felt 
personally  cheated  by  my  father's  lack  of  piety,  she 
thought  it  was  her  duty  to  take  her  husband's  part, 
even  against  her  parents,  in  their  own  house.  My 
mother  was  one  of  those  women  who  always  obey  the 
highest  law  they  know,  even  though  it  leads  them  to 
their  doom. 

How  did  it  happen  that  my  father,  who  from  his  early 
boyhood  had  been  pointed  out  as  a  scholar  in  embryo, 
failed  to  live  up  to  the  expectations  of  his  world?  It 
happened  as  it  happened  that  his  hair  curled  over  his 
high  forehead:  he  was  made  that  way.  If  people  were 
disappointed,  it  was  because  they  had  based  their  ex- 


DAILY  BREAD  65 

pectations  on  a  misconception  of  his  character,  for  my 
father  had  never  had  any  aspirations  for  extreme  piety. 
Piety  was  imputed  to  him  by  his  mother,  by  his  rebbe, 
by  his  neighbors,  when  they  saw  that  he  rendered  the 
sacred  word  more  intelligently  than  his  fellow  students. 
It  was  not  his  fault  that  his  people  confused  scholarship 
with  religious  ardor.  Having  a  good  mind,  he  was  glad 
to  exercise  it;  and  being  given  only  one  subject  to  study, 
he  was  bound  to  make  rapid  progress  in  that.  If  he  had 
ever  been  offered  a  choice  between  a  religious  and  a  sec- 
ular education,  his  friends  would  have  found  out  early 
that  he  was  not  born  to  be  a  rav.  But  as  he  had  no 
mental  opening  except  through  the  hedder,  he  went  on 
from  year  to  year  winning  new  distinction  in  Hebrew 
scholarship;  with  the  result  that  witnesses  with  pre- 
conceived ideas  began  to  see  the  halo  of  piety  playing 
around  his  head,  and  a  well-to-do  family  was  misled 
into  making  a  match  with  him  for  the  sake  of  the  glory 
that  he  was  to  attain. 

When  it  became  evident  that  the  son-in-law  was  not 
going  to  develop  into  a  rav,  my  grandfather  notified  him 
that  he  would  have  to  assume  the  support  of  his  own 
family  without  delay.  My  father  therefore  entered  on  a 
series  of  experiments  with  paying  occupations,  for  none 
of  which  he  was  qualified,  and  in  none  of  which  he 
succeeded  permanently. 

My  mother  was  with  my  father,  as  equal  partner  and 
laborer,  in  everything  he  attempted  in  Polotzk.  They 
tried  keeping  a  wayside  inn,  but  had  to  give  it  up  be- 
cause the  life  was  too  rough  for  my  mother,  who  was 
expecting  her  first  baby.  Returning  to  Polotzk,  they 
went  to  storekeeping  on  their  own  account,  but  failed 
in  this  also,  because  my  father  was  inexperienced,  and 


66  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

my  mother,  now  with  the  baby  to  nurse,  was  not  able  to 
give  her  best  attention  to  business.  Over  two  years 
passed  in  this  experiment,  and  in  the  interval  the  second 
child  was  born,  increasing  my  parents'  need  of  a  home 
and  a  reliable  income. 

It  was  then  decided  that  my  father  should  seek  his 
fortune  elsewhere.  He  travelled  as  far  east  as  Tchi- 
stopol,  on  the  Volga,  and  south  as  far  as  Odessa,  on  the 
Black  Sea,  trying  his  luck  at  various  occupations  within 
the  usual  Jewish  restrictions.  Finally  he  reached  the 
position  of  assistant  superintendent  in  a  distillery,  with 
a  salary  of  thirty  rubles  a  month.  That  was  a  fair  in- 
come for  those  days,  and  he  was  planning  to  have  his 
family  join  him  when  my  Grandfather  Raphael  died, 
leaving  my  mother  heir  to  a  good  business.  My  father 
thereupon  returned  to  Polotzk,  after  nearly  three  years' 
absence  from  home. 

As  my  mother  had  been  trained  to  her  business  from 
childhood,  while  my  father  had  had  only  a  little  irregu- 
lar experience,  she  naturally  remained  the  leader.  She 
was  as  successful  as  her  father  before  her.  The  people 
continued  to  call  her  Raphael's  Hannah  Hayye,  and 
under  that  name  she  was  greatly  respected  in  the  busi- 
ness world.  Her  eldest  brother  was  now  a  merchant  of 
importance,  and  my  mother's  establishment  was  gradu' 
ally  enlarged;  so  that,  altogether,  our  family  had  a  solid 
position  in  Polotzk,  and  there  were  plenty  to  envy  us. 

We  were  almost  rich,  as  Polotzk  counted  riches  in 
those  days;  certainly  we  were  considered  well-to-do. 
We  moved  into  a  larger  house,  where  there  was  room 
for  out-of-town  customers  to  stay  overnight,  with  stab- 
ling for  their  horses.  We  lived  as  well  as  any  people  of 
our  class,  and  perhaps  better,  because  my  father  had 


DAILY  BREAD  67 

brought  home  with  him  from  his  travels  a  taste  for  a 
more  genial  life  than  Polotzk  usually  asked  for.  My 
mother  kept  a  cook  and  a  nursemaid,  and  a  dvornik,  or 
outdoor  man,  to  take  care  of  the  horses,  the  cow,  and 
the  woodpile.  All  the  year  round  we  kept  open  house,  as 
I  remember.  Cousins  and  aunts  were  always  about,  and 
on  holidays  friends  of  all  degrees  gathered  in  numbers. 
And  coming  and  going  in  the  wing  set  apart  for  business 
guests  were  merchants,  traders,  country  peddlers,  peas- 
ants, soldiers,  and  minor  government  officials.  It  was  a 
full  house  at  all  times,  and  especially  so  during  fairs,  and 
at  the  season  of  the  military  draft. 

In  the  family  wing  there  was  also  enough  going  on. 
There  were  four  of  us  children,  besides  father  and  mother 
and  grandmother,  and  the  parasitic  cousins.  Fetchke 
was  the  eldest;  I  was  the  second;  the  third  was  my  only 
brother,  named  Joseph,  for  my  father's  father;  and  the 
fourth  was  Deborah,  named  for  my  mother's  mother. 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  explain  my  own  name  also, 
especially  because  I  am  going  to  emerge  as  the  heroine 
by  and  by.  Be  it  therefore  known  that  I  was  named 
Maryashe,  for  a  bygone  aunt.  I  was  never  called  by  my 
full  name,  however.  "Maryashe"  was  too  dignified  for 
me.  I  was  always  "Mashinke,"  or  else  "Mashke,"  by 
way  of  diminutive.  A  variety  of  nicknames,  mostly 
suggested  by  my  physical  peculiarities,  were  bestowed 
on  me  from  time  to  time  by  my  fond  or  foolish  relatives. 
My  uncle  Berl,  for  example,  gave  me  the  name  of 
"Zukrochene  Flum,"  which  I  am  not  going  to  translate, 
because  it  is  uncomplimentary. 

My  sister  Fetchke  was  always  the  good  little  girl,  and 
when  our  troubles  began  she  was  an  important  member 
of  the  family.    What  sort  of  little  girl  I  was  will  be 


68  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

written  by  and  by.  Joseph  was  the  best  Jewish  boy  that 
ever  was  born,  but  he  hated  to  go  to  heder,  so  he  had  to 
be  whipped,  of  course.  Deborah  was  just  a  baby,  and 
her  principal  characteristic  was  single-mindedness.  If 
she  had  teething  to  attend  to,  she  thought  of  nothing  else 
day  or  night,  and  communicated  with  the  family  on  no 
other  subject.  If  it  was  whooping-cough,  she  whooped 
most  heartily;  if  it  was  measles,  she  had  them  thick. 

It  was  the  normal  thing  in  Polotzk,  where  the  mothers 
worked  as  well  as  the  fathers,  for  the  children  to  be  left 
in  the  hands  of  grandmothers  and  nursemaids.  I  suffer 
reminiscent  terrors  when  I  recall  Deborah's  nurse,  who 
never  opened  her  lips  except  to  frighten  us  children  — 
or  else  to  lie.  That  girl  never  told  the  truth  if  she  could 
help  it.  I  know  it  is  so  because  I  heard  her  tell  eleven  or 
twelve  unnecessary  lies  every  day.  In  the  beginning  of 
her  residence  with  us,  I  exposed  her  indignantly  every 
time  I  caught  her  lying;  but  the  tenor  of  her  private 
conversations  with  me  was  conducive  to  a  cessation  of 
my  activity  along  the  line  of  volunteer  testimony.  In 
shorter  words,  the  nurse  terrified  me  with  horrid  threats 
until  I  did  not  dare  to  contradict  her  even  if  she  lied  her 
head  off.  The  things  she  promised  me  in  this  life  and  in 
the  life  to  come  could  not  be  executed  by  a  person  with- 
out imagination.  The  nurse  gave  almost  her  entire 
attention  to  us  older  children,  disposing  easily  of  the 
baby's  claims.  Deborah,  unless  she  was  teething  or 
whoop-coughing,  was  a  quiet  baby,  and  would  lie  for 
hours  on  the  nurse's  lap,  sucking  at  a  "pacifier"  made 
of  bread  and  sugar  tied  up  in  a  muslin  rag,  and  previ- 
ously chewed  to  a  pulp  by  the  nurse.  And  while  the 
baby  sucked  the  nurse  told  us  things  —  things  that  we 
must  remember  when  we  went  to  bed  at  night. 


DAILY  BREAD  69 

A  favorite  subject  of  her  discourse  was  the  Evil  One, 
who  lived,  so  she  told  us,  in  our  attic,  with  his  wife  and 
brood.  A  pet  amusement  of  our  invisible  tenant  was 
the  translating  of  human  babies  into  his  lair,  leaving 
one  of  his  own  brats  in  the  cradle;  the  moral  of  which 
was  that  if  nurse  wanted  to  loaf  in  the  yard  and  watch 
who  went  out  and  who  came  in,  we  children  must  mind 
the  baby.  The  girl  was  so  sly  that  she  carried  on  all 
this  tyranny  without  being  detected,  and  we  lived  in 
terror  till  she  was  discharged  for  stealing. 

In  our  grandmothers  we  were  very  fortunate :  They 
spoiled  us  to  our  hearts'  content.  Grandma  Deborah's 
methods  I  know  only  from  hearsay,  for  I  was  very 
little  when  she  died.  Grandma  Rachel  I  remember 
distinctly,  spare  and  trim  and  always  busy.  I  recall 
her  coming  in  midwinter  from  the  frozen  village  where 
she  lived.  I  remember,  as  if  it  were  but  last  winter, 
the  immense  shawls  and  wraps  which  we  unwound 
from  about  her  person,  her  voluminous  brown  sack 
coat  in  which  there  was  room  for  three  of  us  at  a  time, 
and  at  last  the  tight  clasp  of  her  long  arms,  and  her 
fresh,  cold  cheeks  on  ours.  And  when  the  hugging  and 
kissing  were  over,  Grandma  had  a  treat  for  us.  It 
was  talakno,  or  oat  flour,  which  we  mixed  with  cold 
water  and  ate  raw,  using  wooden  spoons,  just  like  the 
peasants,  and  smacking  our  lips  over  it  in  imaginary 
enjoyment. 

But  Grandma  Rachel  did  not  come  to  play.  She  ap- 
plied herself  energetically  to  the  housekeeping.  She 
kept  her  bright  eye  on  everything,  as  if  she  were  in  her 
own  trifling  establishment  in  Yuchovitch.  Watchful 
was  she  as  any  cat  —  and  harmless  as  a  tame  rabbit.  If 
she  caught  the  maids  at  fault,  she  found  an  excuse  for 


70  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

them  at  the  same  time.  If  she  was  quite  exasperated 
with  the  stupidity  of  Yakub,  the  dvornik,  she  pretended 
to  curse  him  in  a  phrase  of  her  own  invention,  a  mixture 
of  Hebrew  and  Russian,  which,  translated,  said,  "Mayst 
thou  have  gold  and  silver  in  thy  bosom";  but  to  the 
choreman,  who  was  not  a  linguist,  the  mongrel  phrase 
conveyed  a  sense  of  his  delinquency. 

Grandma  Rachel  meant  to  be  very  strict  with  us  child- 
ren, and  accordingly  was  prompt  to  discipline  us;  but 
we  discovered  early  in  our  acquaintance  with  her  that 
the  child  who  got  a  spanking  was  sure  to  get  a  hot 
cookie  or  the  jam  pot  to  lick,  so  we  did  not  stand  in  great 
awe  of  her  punishments.  Even  if  it  came  to  a  spanking 
it  was  only  a  farce.  Grandma  generally  interposed  a 
pillow  between  the  palm  of  her  hand  and  the  area  of 
moral  stimulation. 

The  real  disciplinarian  in  our  family  was  my  father. 
Present  or  absent,  it  was  fear  of  his  displeasure  that  kept 
us  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path.  In  the  minds  of  us 
children  he  was  as  much  represented,  when  away  from 
home,  by  the  strap  hanging  on  the  wall  as  by  his  por- 
trait which  stood  on  a  parlor  table,  in  a  gorgeous  frame 
adorned  with  little  shells.  Almost  everybody's  father 
had  a  strap,  but  our  father's  strap  was  more  formida- 
ble than  the  ordinary.  For  one  thing,  it  was  more  pain- 
ful to  encounter  personally,  because  it  was  not  a  simple 
strap,  but  a  bunch  of  fine  long  strips,  clinging  as  rub- 
ber. My  father  called  it  noodles;  and  while  his  fa- 
cetiousness  was  lost  on  us  children,  the  superior  sting 
of  his  instrument  was  entirely  effective. 

In  his  leisure,  my  father  found  means  of  instructing 
us  other  than  by  the  strap.  He  took  us  walking  and 
driving,  answered  our  questions,  and  taught  us  many 


MY  FATHER'S   PORTRAIT 


DAILY  BREAD  71 

little  things  that  our  playmates  were  not  taught.  From 
distant  parts  of  the  country  he  had  imported  little  tricks 
of  speech  and  conduct,  which  we  learned  readily  enough; 
for  we  were  always  a  teachable  lot.  Our  pretty  manners 
were  very  much  admired,  so  that  we  became  used  to 
being  held  up  as  models  to  children  less  polite.  Guests 
at  our  table  praised  our  deportment,  when,  at  the  end 
of  a  meal,  we  kissed  the  hands  of  father  and  mother 
and  thanked  them  for  food.  Envious  mothers  of  rowdy 
children  used  to  sneer," Those  grandchildren  of  Raphael 
the  Russian  are  quite  the  aristocrats." 

And  yet,  off  the  stage,  we  had  our  little  quarrels  and 
tempests,  especially  I.  I  really  and  truly  cannot  remem- 
ber a  time  when  Fetchke  was  naughty,  but  I  was  oftener 
in  trouble  than  out  of  it.  I  need  not  go  into  details. 
I  only  need  to  recall  how  often,  on  going  to  bed,  I  used 
to  lie  silently  rehearsing  the  day's  misdeeds,  my  sister 
refraining  from  talk  out  of  sympathy.  As  I  always 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  wanted  to  reform,  I 
emerged  from  my  reflections  with  this  solemn  formula: 
"Fetchke,  let  us  be  good."  And  my  generosity  in  in- 
cluding my  sister  in  my  plans  for  salvation  was  equalled 
by  her  magnanimity  in  assuming  part  of  my  degrada- 
tion. She  always  replied,  in  aspiration  as  eager  as  mine, 
"Yes,  Mashke,  let  us  be  good." 

My  mother  had  less  to  do  than  any  one  with  our  early 
training,  because  she  was  confined  to  the  store.  When 
she  came  home  at  night,  with  her  pockets  full  of  goodies 
for  us,  she  was  too  hungry  for  our  love  to  listen  to  tales 
against  us,  too  tired  from  work  to  discipline  us.  It  was 
only  on  Sabbaths  and  holidays  that  she  had  a  chance 
to  get  acquainted  with  us,  and  we  all  looked  forward  to 
these  days  of  enjoined  rest. 


72  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

On  Friday  afternoons  my  parents  came  home  early, 
to  wash  and  dress  and  remove  from  their  persons  every 
sign  of  labor.  The  great  keys  of  the  store  were  put  away 
out  of  sight;  the  money  bag  was  hidden  in  the  feather- 
beds.  My  father  put  on  his  best  coat  and  silk  skull-cap; 
my  mother  replaced  the  cotton  kerchief  by  the  well- 
brushed  wig.  We  children  bustled  around  our  parents, 
asking  favors  in  the  name  of  the  Sabbath  —  "Mama, 
let  Fetchke  and  me  wear  our  new  shoes,  in  honor  of 
Sabbath";  or  "Papa,  will  you  take  us  to-morrow 
across  the  bridge?  You  said  you  would,  on  Sabbath." 
And  while  we  adorned  ourselves  in  our  best,  my  grand- 
mother superintended  the  sealing  of  the  oven,  the  maids 
washed  the  sweat  from  their  faces,  and  the  dvornik 
scraped  his  feet  at  the  door. 

My  father  and  brother  went  to  the  synagogue,  while 
we  women  and  girls  assembled  in  the  living-room  for 
candle  prayer.  The  table  gleamed  with  spotless  linen 
and  china.  At  my  father's  place  lay  the  Sabbath  loaf, 
covered  over  with  a  crocheted  doily;  and  beside  it  stood 
the  wine  flask  and  kiddush  cup  of  gold  or  silver.  At 
the  opposite  end  of  the  table  was  a  long  row  of  brass 
candlesticks,  polished  to  perfection,  with  the  heavy  sil- 
ver candlesticks  in  a  shorter  row  in  front;  for  my  mother 
and  grandmother  were  very  pious,  and  each  used  a 
number  of  candles;  while  Fetchke  and  I  and  the  maids 
had  one  apiece. 

After  the  candle  prayer  the  women  generally  read  in 
some  book  of  devotion,  while  we  children  amused  our- 
selves in  the  quietest  manner,  till  the  men  returned  from 
synagogue.  "Good  Sabbath!"  my  father  called,  as  he 
entered;  and  "Good  Sabbath!  Good  Sabbath!"  we 
wished  him  in  return.  If  he  brought  with  him  a  Sabbath 


DAILY   BREAD  73 

guest  from  the  synagogue,  some  poor  man  without  a 
home,  the  stranger  was  welcomed  and  invited  in,  and 
placed  in  the  seat  of  honor,  next  to  my  father. 

We  all  stood  around  the  table  while  kiddush,  or  the 
blessing  over  the  wine,  was  said,  and  if  a  child  whispered 
or  nudged  another  my  father  reproved  him  with  a  stern 
look,  and  began  again  from  the  beginning.  But  as  soon 
as  he  had  cut  the  consecrated  loaf,  and  distributed  the 
slices,  we  were  at  liberty  to  talk  and  ask  questions,  unless 
a  guest  was  present,  when  we  maintained  a  polite  silence. 

Of  one  Sabbath  guest  we  were  always  sure,  even  if  no 
destitute  Jew  accompanied  my  father  from  the  syna- 
gogue. Yakub  the  choreman  partook  of  the  festival 
with  us.  He  slept  on  a  bunk  built  over  the  entrance 
door,  and  reached  by  means  of  a  rude  flight  of  steps. 
There  he  liked  to  roll  on  his  straw  and  rags,  whenever  he 
was  not  busy,  or  felt  especially  lazy.  On  Friday  evenings 
he  climbed  to  his  roost  very  early,  before  the  family 
assembled  for  supper,  and  waited  for  his  cue,  which  was 
the  breaking-out  of  table  talk  after  the  blessing  of  the 
bread.  Then  Yakub  began  to  clear  his  throat  and  kept 
on  working  at  it  until  my  father  called  to  him  to  come 
down  and  have  a  glass  of  vodka.  Sometimes  my  father 
pretended  not  to  hear  him,  and  we  smiled  at  one  another 
around  the  table,  while  Yakub 's  throat  grew  worse  and 
worse,  and  he  began  to  cough  and  mutter  and  rustle  in 
his  straw.  Then  my  father  let  him  come  down,  and  he 
shuffled  in,  and  stood  clutching  his  cap  with  both  hands, 
while  my  father  poured  him  a  brimming  glass  of  whiskey. 
This  Yakub  dedicated  to  all  our  healths,  and  tossed  off 
to  his  own  comfort.  If  he  got  a  slice  of  boiled  fish  after 
his  glassful,  he  gulped  it  down  as  a  chicken  gulps  worms, 
smacked  his  lips  explosively,  and  wiped  his  fingers  on  his 


74  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

unkempt  locks.  Then,  thanking  his  master  and  mis- 
tress, and  scraping  and  bowing,  he  backed  out  of  the 
room  and  ascended  to  his  roost  once  more;  and  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  write  his  name,  the  simple  fellow 
was  asleep,  and  snoring  the  snore  of  the  just. 

On  Sabbath  morning  almost  everybody  went  to  syna- 
gogue, and  those  who  did  not,  read  their  prayers  and 
devotions  at  home.  Dinner,  at  midday,  was  a  pleasant 
and  leisurely  meal  in  our  house.  Between  courses  my 
father  led  us  in  singing  our  favorite  songs,  sometimes 
Hebrew,  sometimes  Yiddish,  sometimes  Russian,  or 
some  of  the  songs  without  words  for  which  theHasidim 
were  famous.  In  the  afternoon  we  went  visiting,  or 
else  we  took  long  walks  out  of  town,  where  the  fields 
sprouted  and  the  orchards  waited  to  bloom.  If  we 
stayed  at  home,  we  were  not  without  company.  Neigh- 
bors dropped  in  for  a  glass  of  tea.  Uncles  and  cousins 
came,  and  perhaps  my  brother's  rebbe,  to  examine  his 
pupil  in  the  hearing  of  the  family.  And  wherever  we 
spent  the  day,  the  talk  was  pleasant,  the  faces  were 
cheerful,  and  the  joy  of  Sabbath  pervaded  everything. 

The  festivals  were  observed  with  all  due  pomp  and 
circumstance  in  our  house.  Passover  was  beautiful  with 
shining  new  things  all  through  the  house;  Purim  was  gay 
with  feasting  and  presents  and  the  jolly  mummers; 
Suceoth  was  a  poem  lived  in  a  green  arbor;  New- Year 
thrilled  our  hearts  with  its  symbols  and  promises;  and 
the  Day  of  Atonement  moved  even  the  laughing  child- 
ren to  a  longing  for  consecration.  The  year,  in  our 
pious  house,  was  an  endless  song  in  many  cantos  of  joy, 
lamentation,  aspiration,  and  rhapsody. 

We  children,  while  we  regretted  the  passing  of  a  fes- 
tival, found  plenty  to  content  us  in  the  common  days 


DAILY  BREAD  75 

of  the  week.  We  had  everything  we  needed,  and  almost 
everything  we  wanted.  We  were  welcomed  everywhere, 
petted  and  praised,  abroad  as  well  as  at  home.  I  suppose 
no  little  girls  with  whom  we  played  had  a  more  comfort- 
able sense  of  being  well-off  than  Fetchke  and  I.  "Ra- 
phael the  Russian's  grandchildren  "  people  called  us,  as 
if  referring  to  the  quarterings  in  our  shield.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  wear  fine  clothes,  to  have  kopecks  to  spend 
at  the  fruit  stalls,  and  to  be  pointed  at  admiringly. 
Some  of  the  little  girls  we  went  with  were  richer  than  we, 
but  after  all  one's  mother  can  wear  only  one  pair  of  ear- 
rings at  a  time,  and  our  mother  had  beautiful  gold  ones 
that  hung  down  on  her  neck. 

As  we  grew  older,  my  parents  gave  us  more  than 
physical  comfort  and  social  standing  to  rejoice  in.  They 
gave  us,  or  set  out  to  give  us,  education,  which  was  less 
common  than  gold  earrings  in  Polotzk.  For  the  ideal 
of  a  modern  education  was  the  priceless  ware  that  my 
father  brought  back  with  him  from  his  travels  in  dis- 
tant parts.  His  travels,  indeed,  had  been  the  making  of 
my  father.  He  had  gone  away  from  Polotzk,  in  the  first 
place,  as  a  man  unfit  for  the  life  he  led,  out  of  harmony 
with  his  surroundings,  at  odds  with  his  neighbors. 
Never  heartily  devoted  to  the  religious  ideals  of  the 
Hebrew  scholar,  he  was  more  and  more  a  dissenter  as 
he  matured,  but  he  hardly  knew  what  he  wanted  to 
embrace  in  place  of  the  ideals  he  rejected.  The  rigid 
scheme  of  orthodox  Jewish  life  in  the  Pale  offered  no 
opening  to  any  other  mode  of  life.  But  in  the  large 
cities  in  the  east  and  south  he  discovered  a  new  world, 
and  found  himself  at  home  in  it.  The  Jews  among  whom 
he  lived  in  those  parts  were  faithful  to  the  essence  of  the 
religion,  but  they  allowed  themselves  more  latitude  in 


7tf  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

practice  and  observance  than  the  people  in  Polotzk. 
Instead  of  bribing  government  officials  to  relax  the  law 
of  compulsory  education  for  boys,  these  people  pushed 
in  numbers  at  every  open  door  of  culture  and  enlighten- 
ment. Even  the  girls  were  given  books  in  Odessa  and 
Kherson,  as  the  rock  to  build  their  lives  on,  and  not  as 
an  ornament  for  idleness.  My  father's  mind  was  ready 
for  the  reception  of  such  ideas,  and  he  was  inspired  by 
the  new  view  of  the  world  which  they  afforded  him. 

When  he  returned  to  Polotzk  he  knew  what  had  been 
wrong  with  his  life  before,  and  he  proceeded  to  remedy 
it.  He  resolved  to  live,  as  far  as  the  conditions  of  exist- 
ence in  Polotzk  permitted,  the  life  of  a  modern  man. 
And  he  saw  no  better  place  to  begin  than  with  the  edu- 
cation of  the  children.  Outwardly  he  must  conform  to 
the  ways  of  his  neighbors,  just  as  he  must  pay  tribute 
to  the  policeman  on  the  beat;  for  standing  room  is 
necessary  to  all  operations,  and  social  ostracism  could 
ruin  him  as  easily  as  police  persecution.  His  children,  if 
he  started  them  right,  would  not  have  to  bow  to  the 
yoke  as  low  as  he;  his  children's  children  might  even  be 
free  men.  And  education  was  the  one  means  to  redemp- 
tion. 

Fetchke  and  I  were  started  with  a  rebbe,  in  the  or- 
thodox way,  but  we  were  taught  to  translate  as  well  as 
read  Hebrew,  and  we  had  a  secular  teacher  besides.  My 
sister  and  I  were  very  diligent  pupils,  and  my  father 
took  great  satisfaction  in  our  progress  and  built  great 
plans  for  our  higher  education. 

My  brother,  who  was  five  years  old  when  he  entered 
heder,  hated  to  be  shut  up  all  day  over  a  printed  page 
that  meant  nothing  to  him.  He  cried  and  protested,  but 
my  father  was  determined  that  he  should  not  grow  up 


DAILY   BREAD  77 

ignorant,  so  he  used  the  strap  freely  to  hasten  the  tru- 
ant's steps  to  school.  The  heder  was  the  only  beginning 
allowable  for  a  boy  in  Polotzk,  and  to  heder  Joseph  must 
go.  So  the  poor  boy's  life  was  made  a  nightmare,  and 
the  horror  was  not  lifted  until  he  was  ten  years  old, 
when  he  went  to  a  modern  school  where  intelligible 
things  were  taught,  and  it  proved  that  it  was  not  the 
book  he  hated,  but  the  blindness  of  the  heder. 

For  a  number  of  peaceful  years  after  my  father's 
return  from  'far  Russia,"  we  led  a  wholesome  life  of 
comfort,  contentment,  and  faith  in  to-morrow.  Every- 
thing prospered,  and  we  children  grew  in  the  sun.  My 
mother  was  one  with  my  father  in  all  his  plans  for  us. 
Although  she  had  spent  her  young  years  in  the  pursuit 
of  the  ruble,  it  was  more  to  her  that  our  teacher  praised 
us  than  that  she  had  made  a  good  bargain  with  a  tea 
merchant.  Fetchke  and  Joseph  and  I,  and  Deborah, 
when  she  grew  up,  had  some  prospects  even  in  Polotzk, 
with  our  parents'  hearts  set  on  the  highest  things;  but 
we  were  destined  to  seek  our  fortunes  in  a  world  which 
even  my  father  did  not  dream  of  when  he  settled  down 
to  business  in  Polotzk. 

Just  when  he  felt  himself  safe  and  strong,  a  long  series 
of  troubles  set  in  to  harass  us,  and  in  a  few  years'  time 
we  were  reduced  to  a  state  of  helpless  poverty,  in  which 
there  was  no  room  to  think  of  anything  but  bread.  My 
father  became  seriously  ill,  and  spent  large  sums  on 
cures  that  did  not  cure  him.  While  he  was  still  an 
invalid,  my  mother  also  became  ill  and  kept  her  bed  for 
the  better  part  of  two  years.  When  she  got  up,  it  was  only 
to  lapse  again.  Some  of  us  children  also  fell  ill,  so  that 
at  one  period  the  house  was  a  hospital.  And  while  my 
parents  were  incapacitated,  the  business  was  ruined 


78  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

through  bad  management,  until  a  day  came  when  there 
was  not  enough  money  in  the  cash  drawer  to  pay  the 
doctor's  bills. 

For  some  years  after  they  got  upon  their  feet  again, 
my  parents  struggled  to  regain  their  place  in  the  busi- 
ness world,  but  failed  to  do  so.  My  father  had  another 
period  of  experimenting  with  this  or  that  business,  like 
his  earlier  experience.  But  everything  went  wrong,  till 
at  last  he  made  a  great  resolve  to  begin  life  all  over 
again.  And  the  way  to  do  that  was  to  start  on  a  new 
soil.  My  father  determined  to  emigrate  to  America. 

I  have  now  told  who  I  am,  what  my  people  were,  how 
I  began  life,  and  why  I  was  brought  to  a  new  home.  Up 
to  this  point  I  have  borrowed  the  recollections  of  my 
parents,  to  piece  out  my  own  fragmentary  reminiscences. 
But  from  now  on  I  propose  to  be  my  own  pilot  across 
the  seas  of  memory;  and  if  I  lose  myself  in  the  mists  of 
uncertainty,  or  run  aground  on  the  reefs  of  speculation, 
I  still  hope  to  make  port  at  last,  and  I  shall  look  for  wel- 
coming faces  on  the  shore.  For  the  ship  I  sail  in  is  his- 
tory, and  facts  will  kindle  my  beacon  fires. 


CHAPTER  V 

I   REMEMBER 

My  father  and  mother  could  tell  me  much  more  that 
I  have  forgotten,  or  that  I  never  was  aware  of;  but  I 
want  to  reconstruct  my  childhood  from  those  broken 
recollections  only  which,  recurring  to  me  in  after  years, 
filled  me  with  the  pain  and  wonder  of  remembrance.  I 
want  to  string  together  those  glimpses  of  my  earliest 
days  that  dangle  in  my  mind,  like  little  lanterns  in  the 
crooked  alleys  of  the  past,  and  show  me  an  elusive  little 
figure  that  is  myself,  and  yet  so  much  a  stranger  to  me, 
that  I  often  ask,  Can  this  be  I? 

I  have  not  much  faith  in  the  reality  of  my  first 
recollection,  but  as  I  can  never  go  back  over  the  past 
without  bringing  up  at  last  at  this  sombre  little  scene, 
as  at  a  door  beyond  which  I  cannot  pass,  I  must  put  it 
down  for  what  it  is  worth  in  the  scheme  of  my  memories. 
I  see,  then,  an  empty,  darkened  room.  In  the  middle,  on 
the  floor,  lies  a  long  Shape,  covered  with  some  black 
stuff.  There  are  candles  at  the  head  of  the  Shape.  Dim 
figures  are  seated  low,  against  the  walls,  swaying  to  and 
fro.  No  sound  is  in  the  room,  except  a  moan  or  a  sigh 
from  the  shadowy  figures;  but  a  child  is  walking  softly 
around  and  around  the  Shape  on  the  floor,  in  quiet 
curiosity. 

The  Shape  is  the  body  of  my  grandfather  laid  out  for 
burial.  The  child  is  myself  —  myself  asking  questions 
of  Death. 

I  was  four  years  old  when  my  mother's  father  died. 


80  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

Do  I  really  remember  the  little  scene?  Perhaps  I  heard 
it  described  by  some  fond  relative,  as  I  heard  other 
anecdotes  of  my  infancy,  and  unconsciously  incorpor- 
ated it  with  my  genuine  recollections.  It  is  so  suitable  a 
scene  for  a  beginning:  the  darkness,  the  mystery,  the 
impenetrability.  My  share  in  it,  too,  is  characteristic 
enough,  if  I  really  studied  that  Shape  by  the  lighted 
candles,  as  I  have  always  pretended  to  myself.  So  often 
afterwards  I  find  myself  forgetting  the  conventional 
meanings  of  things,  in  some  search  for  a  meaning  of  my 
own.  It  is  more  likely,  however,  that  I  took  no  intel- 
lectual interest  in  my  grandfather's  remains  at  the  time, 
but  later  on,  when  I  sought  for  a  First  Recollection,  per- 
haps, elaborated  the  scene,  and  my  part  in  it,  to  some- 
thing that  satisfied  my  sense  of  dramatic  fitness.  If 
I  really  committed  such  a  fraud,  I  am  now  well  pun- 
ished, by  being  obliged,  at  the  very  start,  to  discredit 
the  authenticity  of  my  memoirs. 

The  abode  of  our  childhood,  if  not  revisited  in  later 
years,  is  apt  to  loom  in  our  imagination  as  a  vast  edifice 
with  immense  chambers  in  which  our  little  self  seems 
lost.  Somehow  I  have  failed  of  this  illusion.  My  grand- 
father's house,  where  I  was  born,  stands,  in  my  memory, 
a  small,  one-story  wooden  building,  whose  chimneys 
touch  the  sky  at  the  same  level  as  its  neighbors'  chim- 
neys. Such  as  it  was,  the  house  stood  even  with  the 
sidewalk,  but  the  yard  was  screened  from  the  street  by  a 
board  fence,  outside  which  I  am  sure  there  was  a  bench. 
The  gate  into  the  yard  swung  so  high  from  the  ground 
that  four-footed  visitors  did  not  have  to  wait  till  it  was 
opened.  Pigs  found  their  way  in,  and  were  shown  the 
way  out,  under  the  gate;  grunting  on  their  arrival,  but 
squealing  on  their  departure. 


I   REMEMBER  81 

Of  the  interior  of  the  house  I  remember  only  one 
room,  and  not  so  much  the  room  as  the  window,  which 
had  a  blue  sash  curtain,  and  beyond  the  curtain  a  view 
of  a  narrow,  walled  garden,  where  deep-red  dahlias  grew. 
The  garden  belonged  to  the  house  adjoining  my  grand- 
father's, where  lived  the  Gentile  girl  who  was  kind  to 
me. 

Concerning  my  dahlias  I  have  been  told  that  they  were 
not  dahlias  at  all,  but  poppies.  As  a  conscientious  his- 
torian I  am  bound  to  record  every  rumor,  but  I  retain 
the  right  to  cling  to  my  own  impression.  Indeed,  I  must 
insist  on  my  dahlias,  if  I  am  to  preserve  the  garden  at 
all.  I  have  so  long  believed  in  them,  that  if  I  try  to  see 
poppies  in  those  red  masses  over  the  wall,  the  whole 
garden  crumbles  away,  and  leaves  me  a  gray  blank.  I 
have  nothing  against  poppies.  It  is  only  that  my  illu- 
sion is  more  real  to  me  than  reality.  And  so  do  we  often 
build  our  world  on  an  error,  and  cry  out  that  the  uni- 
verse is  falling  to  pieces,  if  any  one  but  lift  a  finger  to 
replace  the  error  by  truth. 

Ours  was  a  quiet  neighborhood.  Across  the  narrow 
street  was  the  orderly  front  of  the  Korpus,  or  military 
academy,  with  straight  rows  of  unshuttered  windows. 
It  was  an  imposing  edifice  in  the  eyes  of  us  all,  because 
it  was  built  of  brick,  and  was  several  stories  high.  At 
one  of  the  windows  I  pretend  I  remember  seeing  a  tailor 
mending  the  uniforms  of  the  cadets.  I  knew  the  uni- 
forms, and  I  knew,  in  later  years,  the  man  who  had  been 
the  tailor;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  emigrate  to 
America,  there  to  seek  his  fortune  in  a  candy  shop,  and 
his  happiness  in  a  family  of  triplets,  twins,  and  even 
odds,  long  before  I  was  old  enough  to  toddle  as  far  as 
the  gate. 


82  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Behind  my  grandfather's  house  was  a  low  hill,  which 
I  do  not  remember  as  a  mountain.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
a  hump  in  the  ground.  This  eminence,  of  whatever 
stature,  was  a  part  of  the  Vail,  a  longer  and  higher  ridge 
on  the  top  of  which  was  a  promenade,  and  which  was 
said  to  be  the  burying-ground  of  Napoleonic  soldiers. 
This  historic  rumor  meant  very  little  to  me,  for  I  never 
knew  what  Napoleon  was. 

It  was  not  my  way  to  accept  unchallenged  every  su- 
perstition that  came  to  my  ears.  Among  the  wild  flowers 
that  grew  on  the  grassy  slopes  of  the  Vail,  there  was  a 
small  daisy,  popularly  called  "blind  flower,"'  because  it 
was  supposed  to  cause  blindness  in  rash  children  who 
picked  it.  I  was  rash,  if  I  was  awake;  and  I  picked 
"blind  flowers"  behind  the  house,  handfuls  of  them,  and 
enjoyed  my  eyesight  unimpaired.  If  my  faith  in  nursery 
lore  was  shaken  by  this  experience,  I  kept  my  discovery 
to  myself,  and  did  not  undertake  to  enlighten  my  play- 
mates. I  find  other  instances,  later  on,  of  the  curious  fact 
that  I  was  content  with  finding  out  for  myself.  It  is  curi- 
ous to  me  because  I  am  not  so  reticent  now.  When  I  dis- 
cover anything,  if  only  a  new  tint  in  the  red  sunset,  I 
must  publish  the  fact  to  all  my  friends.  Is  it  possible  that 
in  my  childish  reflections  I  recognized  the  fact  that  ours 
was  a  secretive  atmosphere,  where  knowledge  was  for 
the  few,  and  wisdom  was  sometimes  a  capital  offence? 

In  the  summer-time  I  lived  outdoors  considerably.  I 
found  many  occasions  to  visit  my  mother  in  the  store, 
which  gave  me  a  long  walk.  If  my  errand  was  not 
pressing  —  or  perhaps  even  if  it  was  —  I  made  a  long 
stop  on  the  Platz,  especially  if  I  had  a  companion  with 
me.  The  Platz  was  a  rectangular  space  in  the  centre  of  a 
roomy  square,  with  a  shady  promenade  around  its  level 


I   REMEMBER  83 

lawn.  The  Korpus  faced  on  the  Platz,  which  was  its 
drill  ground.  Around  the  square  were  grouped  the  fine 
residences  of  the  officers  of  the  Korpus,  with  a  great 
white  church  occupying  one  side.  These  buildings  had 
a  fearful  interest  for  me,  especially  the  church,  as  the 
dwellings  and  sanctuary  of  the  enemy;  but  on  the  Platz 
I  was  not  afraid  to  play  and  seek  adventures.  I  loved  to 
watch  the  cadets  drill  and  play  ball,  or  pass  them  close 
as  they  promenaded,  two  and  two,  looking  so  perfect  in 
white  trousers  and  jackets  and  visored  caps.  I  loved  to 
run  with  my  playmates  and  lay  out  all  sorts  of  geometric 
figures  on  the  four  straight  sides  of  the  promenade; 
patterns  of  infinite  variety,  traceable  only  by  a  pair  of 
tireless  feet.  If  one  got  so  wild  with  play  as  to  forget  all 
fear,  one  could  swing,  until  chased  away  by  the  guard, 
on  the  heavy  chain  festoons  that  encircled  the  monu- 
ment at  one  side  of  the  square.  This  was  the  only  monu- 
ment in  Polotzk,  dedicated  I  never  knew  to  whom  or 
what.  It  was  the  monument,  as  the  sky  was  the  sky, 
and  the  earth,  earth :  the  only  phenomenon  of  its  kind, 
mysterious,  unquestionable. 

It  was  not  far  from  the  limits  of  Polotzk  to  the  fields 
and  woods.  My  father  was  fond  of  taking  us  children 
for  a  long  walk  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon.  I  have  little 
pictures  in  my  mind  of  places  where  we  went,  though  I 
doubt  if  they  could  be  found  from  my  descriptions.  I  try 
in  vain  to  conjure  up  a  panoramic  view  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. Even  when  I  stood  on  the  apex  of  the  Vail,  and 
saw  the  level  country  spread  in  all  directions,  my  inex- 
perienced eyes  failed  to  give  me  the  picture  of  the  whole. 
I  saw  the  houses  in  the  streets  below,  all  going  to  market. 
The  highroads  wandered  out  into  the  country,  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  sunny  distance,  where  the  edge  of  the 


84  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

earth  and  the  edge  of  the  sky  fitted  together,  like  a  jewel 
box  with  the  lid  ajar.  In  these  things  I  saw  what  a  child 
always  sees :  the  unrelated  fragments  of  a  vast,  mysteri- 
ous world.  But  although  my  geography  may  be  vague, 
and  the  scenes  I  remember  as  the  pieces  of  a  paper 
puzzle,  still  my  breath  catches  as  I  replace  this  bit  or 
that,  and  coax  the  edges  to  fit  together.  I  am  obsti- 
nately positive  of  some  points,  and  for  the  rest,  you  may 
amend  the  puzzle  if  you  can.  You  may  make  a  survey 
of  Polotzk  ever  so  accurate,  and  show  me  where  I  was 
wrong;  still  I  am  the  better  guide.  You  may  show  that 
my  adventureful  road  led  nowhere,  but  I  can  prove,  by 
the  quickening  of  my  pulse  and  the  throbbing  of  my 
rapid  recollections,  that  things  happened  to  me  there  or 
here;  and  I  shall  be  believed,  not  you.  And  so  over  the 
vague  canvas  of  scenes  half  remembered,  half  imagined, 
I  draw  the  brush  of  recollection,  and  pick  out  here  a 
landmark,  there  a  figure,  and  set  my  own  feet  back  in 
the  old  ways,  and  live  over  the  old  events.  It  is  real 
enough,  as  by  my  beating  heart  you  might  know. 

Sometimes  my  father  took  us  out  by  the  Long  Road. 
There  is  no  road  in  the  neighborhood  of  Polotzk  by  that 
name,  but  I  know  very  well  that  the  way  was  long  to  my 
little  feet;  and  long  are  the  backward  thoughts  that  creep 
along  it,  like  a  sunbeam  travelling  with  the  day. 

The  first  landmark  on  the  sunny,  dusty  road  is  the 
house  of  a  peasant  acquaintance  where  we  stopped  for 
rest  and  a  drink.  I  remember  a  cool  gray  interior,  a 
woman  with  her  bosom  uncovered  pattering  barefoot  to 
hand  us  the  hospitable  dipper,  and  a  baby  smothered 
in  a  deep  cradle  which  hung  by  ropes  from  the  ceiling. 
Farther  on,  the  empty  road  gave  us  shadows  of  trees 
and  rustlings  of  long  grass.  This,  at  least,  is  what  I 


I   REMEMBER  85 

imagine  over  the  spaces  where  no  certain  object  is. 
Then,  I  know,  we  ran  and  played,  and  it  was  father 
himself  who  hid  in  the  corn,  and  we  made  havoc  follow- 
ing after.  Laughing,  we  ramble  on,  till  we  hear  the  long, 
far  whistle  of  a  locomotive.  The  railroad  track  is  just 
visible  over  the  field  on  the  left  of  the  road;  the  corn- 
field, I  say,  is  on  the  right.  We  stand  on  tiptoe  and  wave 
our  hands  and  shout  as  the  long  train  rushes  by  at  a 
terrific  speed,  leaving  its  pennon  of  smoke  behind. 

The  passing  of  the  train  thrilled  me  wonderfully. 
Where  did  it  come  from,  and  whither  did  it  fly,  and  how 
did  it  feel  to  be  one  of  the  faces  at  the  windows?  If  ever 
I  dreamed  of  a  world  beyond  Polotzk,  it  must  have  been 
at  those  times,  though  I  do  not  honestly  remember. 

Somewhere  out  on  that  same  Long  Road  is  the  place 
where  we  once  attended  a  wedding.  I  do  not  know  who 
were  married,  or  whether  they  lived  happily  ever  after; 
but  I  remember  that  when  the  dancers  were  wearied, 
and  we  were  all  sated  with  goodies,  day  was  dawning, 
and  several  of  the  young  people  went  out  for  a  stroll  in  a 
grove  near  by.  They  took  me  with  them  —  who  were 
they?  —  and  they  lost  me.  At  any  rate,  when  they  saw 
me  again,  I  was  a  stranger.  For  I  had  sojourned,  for  an 
immeasurable  moment,  in  a  world  apart  from  theirs.  I 
had  witnessed  my  first  sunrise;  I  had  watched  the  rosy 
morning  tiptoe  in  among  the  silver  birches.  And  that 
grove  stands  on  the  left  side  of  the  road. 

We  had  another  stopping-place  out  in  that  direction. 
It  was  the  place  where  my  mother  sent  her  hundred  and 
more  house  plants  to  be  cared  for  one  season,  because 
for  some  reason  they  could  not  fare  well  at  home.  We 
children  went  to  visit  them  once;  and  the  memory  of 
that  is  red  and  white  and  purple. 


86  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

The  Long  Road  went  ever  on  and  on;  I  remember  no 
turns.  But  we  turned  at  last,  when  the  sun  was  set  and 
the  breeze  of  evening  blew;  and  sometimes  the  first  star 
came  in  and  the  Sabbath  went  out  before  we  reached 
home  and  supper. 

Another  way  out  of  town  was  by  the  bridge  across  the 
Polota.  I  recall  more  than  one  excursion  in  that  direc- 
tion. Sometimes  we  made  a  large  party,  annexing  a  few 
cousins  and  aunts  for  the  day.  At  this  moment  I  feel  a 
movement  of  affection  for  these  relations  who  shared 
our  country  adventures.  I  had  forgotten  what  virtue 
there  was  in  our  family;  I  do  like  people  who  can  walk. 
In  those  days,  it  is  likely  enough,  I  did  not  always  walk 
on  my  own  legs,  for  I  was  very  little,  and  not  strong.  I 
do  not  remember  being  carried,  but  if  any  of  my  big 
uncles  gave  me  a  lift,  I  am  sure  I  like  them  all  the  more 
for  it. 

The  Dvina  River  swallowed  the  Polota  many  times  a 
day,  yet  the  lesser  stream  flooded  the  universe  on  one 
occasion.  On  the  hither  bank  of  that  stream,  as  you  go 
from  Polotzk,  I  should  plant  a  flowering  bush,  a  lilac  or 
a  rose,  in  memory  of  the  life  that  bloomed  in  me  one 
day  that  I  was  there. 

Leisurely  we  had  strolled  out  of  the  peaceful  town.  It 
was  early  spring,  and  the  sky  and  the  earth  were  two 
warm  palms  in  which  all  live  things  nestled.  Little 
green  leaves  trembled  on  the  trees,  and  the  green,  green 
grass  sparkled.  We  sat  us  down  to  rest  a  little  above  the 
bridge;  and  life  flowed  in  and  out  of  us  fully,  freely,  as 
the  river  flowed  and  parted  about  the  bridge  piles. 

A  market  garden  lay  on  the  opposite  slope,  yellow- 
green  with  first  growth.  In  the  long  black  furrows  yet 
unsown  a  peasant  pushed  his  plow.  I  watched  him  go  up 


I   REMEMBER  87 

and  down,  leaving  a  new  black  line  on  the  bank  for 
every  turn.  Suddenly  he  began  to  sing,  a  rude  plow- 
man's song.  Only  the  melody  reached  me,  but  the  mean- 
ing sprang  up  in  my  heart  to  fit  it  —  a  song  of  the  earth 
and  the  hopes  of  the  earth.  I  sat  a  long  time  listening, 
looking,  tense  with  attention.  I  felt  myself  discovering 
things.  Something  in  me  gasped  for  life,  and  lay  still.  I 
was  but  a  little  body,  and  Life  Universal  had  suddenly 
burst  upon  me.  For  a  moment  I  had  my  little  hand  on 
the  Great  Pulse,  but  my  fingers  slipped,  empty.  For  the 
space  of  a  wild  heartbeat  I  knew,  and  then  I  was  again  a 
simple  child,  looking  to  my  earthly  senses  for  life.  But 
the  sky  had  stretched  for  me,  the  earth  had  expanded;  a 
greater  life  had  dawned  in  me. 

We  are  not  born  all  at  once,  but  by  bits.  The  body 
first,  and  the  spirit  later;  and  the  birth  and  growth  of 
the  spirit,  in  those  who  are  attentive  to  their  own  inner 
life,  are  slow  and  exceedingly  painful.  Our  mothers  are 
racked  with  the  pains  of  our  physical  birth;  we  ourselves 
suffer  the  longer  pains  of  our  spiritual  growth.  Our  souls 
are  scarred  with  the  struggles  of  successive  births,  and 
the  process  is  recorded  also  by  the  wrinkles  in  our  brains, 
by  the  lines  in  our  faces.  Look  at  me,  and  you  will  see 
that  I  have  been  born  many  times.  And  my  first  self- 
birth  happened,  as  I  have  told,  that  spring  day  of  my 
early  springs.  Therefore  would  I  plant  a  rose  on  the 
green  bank  of  the  Polota,  there  to  bloom  in  token  of 
eternal  life. 

Eternal,  divine  life.  This  is  a  tale  of  immortal  life. 
Should  I  be  sitting  here,  chattering  of  my  infantile 
adventures,  if  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  speaking  for 
thousands?  Should  you  be  sitting  there,  attending  to 
my  chatter,  while  the  world's  work  waits,  if  you  did  not 


88  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

know  that  I  spoke  also  for  you?  I  might  say  "y°u"  or 
"he"  instead  of  "I."  Or  I  might  be  silent,  while  you 
spoke  for  me  and  the  rest,  but  for  the  accident  that  I 
was  born  with  a  pen  in  my  hand,  and  you  without.  We 
love  to  read  the  lives  of  the  great,  yet  what  a  broken 
history  of  mankind  they  give,  unless  supplemented  by 
the  lives  of  the  humble.  But  while  the  great  can  speak 
for  themselves,  or  by  the  tongues  of  their  admirers,  the 
humble  are  apt  to  live  inarticulate  and  die  unheard.  It 
is  well  that  now  and  then  one  is  born  among  the  simple 
with  a  taste  for  self -revelation.  The  man  or  woman  thus 
endowed  must  speak,  will  speak,  though  there  are  only 
the  grasses  in  the  field  to  hear,  and  none  but  the  wind 
to  carry  the  tale. 

It  is  fun  to  run  over  the  bridge,  with  a  clatter  of  stout 
little  shoes  on  resounding  timbers.  We  pass  a  walled 
orchard  on  the  right,  and  remind  each  other  of  the  fruit 
we  enjoyed  here  last  summer.  Our  next  stopping-place 
is  farther  on,  beyond  the  wayside  inn  where  lives  the 
idiot  boy  who  gave  me  such  a  scare  last  time.  It  is  a  poor 
enough  place,  where  we  stop,  but  there  is  an  ice  house, 
the  only  one  I  know.  We  are  allowed  to  go  in  and  see 
the  greenish  masses  of  ice  gleaming  in  the  half-light,  and 
bring  out  jars  of  sweet,  black  "lager  beer,"  which  we 
drink  in  the  sunny  doorway.  I  shall  always  remember 
the  flavor  of  the  stuff,  and  the  smell,  and  the  wonder 
and  chill  of  the  ice  house. 

I  vaguely  remember  something  about  a  convent  out 
in  that  direction,  but  I  was  tired  and  sleepy  after  my 
long  walk,  and  glad  to  be  returning  home.  I  hope  they 
carried  me  a  bit  of  the  way,  for  I  was  very  tired.  There 
were  stars  out  before  we  reached  home,  and  the  men 


I   REMEMBER  89 

stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  street  to  bless  the  new 
moon. 

It  is  pleasant  to  recall  how  we  went  bathing  in  the 
Polota.  On  Friday  afternoons  in  summer,  when  the 
week's  work  was  done,  and  the  houses  of  the  good 
housewives  stood  shining  with  cleanliness,  ready  for  the 
Sabbath,  parties  of  women  and  girls  went  chattering 
and  laughing  down  to  the  river  bank.  There  was  a 
particular  spot  which  belonged  to  the  women.  I  do  not 
know  where  the  men  bathed,  but  our  part  of  the  river 
was  just  above  Bonderoff's  gristmill.  I  can  see  the  green 
bank  sloping  to  the  water,  and  the  still  water  sliding 
down  to  the  sudden  swirl  and  spray  of  the  mill  race. 

The  woods  on  the  bank  screened  the  bathers.  Bath- 
ing costumes  were  simply  absent,  which  caused  the  mer- 
maids no  embarrassment,  for  they  were  accustomed  to 
see  each  other  naked  in  the  public  hot  baths.  They  had 
little  fear  of  intrusion,  for  the  spot  was  sacred  to  them. 
They  splashed  about  and  laughed  and  played  tricks, 
with  streaming  hair  and  free  gestures.  I  do  not  know 
when  I  saw  the  girls  play  as  they  did  in  the  water.  It 
was  a  pretty  picture,  but  the  bathers  would  have  been 
shocked  beyond  your  understanding  if  you  had  sug- 
gested that  naked  women  might  be  put  into  a  picture. 
If  it  ever  happened,  as  it  happened  at  least  once  for 
me  to  remember,  that  their  privacy  was  outraged,  the 
bathers  were  thrown  into  a  panic  as  if  their  very  lives 
were  threatened.  Screaming,  they  huddled  together, 
low  in  the  water,  some  hiding  their  eyes  in  their  hands, 
with  the  instinct  of  the  ostrich.  Some  ran  for  their 
clothes  on  the  bank,  and  stood  shrinking  behind  some 
inadequate  rag.  The  more  spirited  of  the  naiads  threw 
pebbles  at  the  cowardly  intruders,  who,  safe  behind  the 


90  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

leafy  cover  that  was  meant  to  shield  modesty,  threw 
jeers  and  mockery  in  return.  But  the  Gentile  boys  ran 
away  soon,  or  ran  away  punished.  A  chemise  and  a 
petticoat  turn  a  frightened  woman  into  an  Amazon  in 
such  circumstances;  and  woe  to  the  impudent  wretch 
who  lingered  after  the  avengers  plunged  into  the  thicket. 
Slaps  and  cuffs  at  close  range  were  his  portion,  and 
curses  pursued  him  in  retreat. 

Among  the  liveliest  of  my  memories  are  those  of  eat- 
ing and  drinking;  and  I  would  sooner  give  up  some 
of  my  delightful  remembered  walks,  green  trees,  cool 
skies,  and  all,  than  to  lose  my  images  of  suppers  eaten  on 
Sabbath  evenings  at  the  end  of  those  walks.  I  make  no 
apology  to  the  spiritually  minded,  to  whom  this  state- 
ment must  be  a  revelation  of  grossness.  I  am  content  to 
tell  the  truth  as  well  as  I  am  able.  I  do  not  even  need 
to  console  myself  with  the  reflection  that  what  is  dross 
to  the  dreamy  ascetic  may  be  gold  to  the  psychologist. 
The  fact  is  that  I  ate,  even  as  a  delicate  child,  with 
considerable  relish;  and  I  remember  eating  with  a  relish 
still  keener.  Why,  I  can  dream  away  a  half -hour  on  the 
immortal  flavor  of  those  thick  cheese  cakes  we  used  to 
have  on  Saturday  night.  I  am  no  cook,  so  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  to  make  such  cake.  I  might  borrow  the  recipe 
from  my  mother,  but  I  would  rather  you  should  take 
my  word  for  the  excellence  of  Polotzk  cheese  cakes.  If 
you  should  attempt  that  pastry,  I  am  certain,  be  you 
ever  so  clever  a  cook,  you  would  be  disappointed  by  the 
result;  and  hence  you  might  be  led  to  mistrust  my  re- 
flections and  conclusions.  You  have  nothing  in  your 
kitchen  cupboard  to  give  the  pastry  its  notable  flavor. 
It  takes  history  to  make  such  a  cake.  First,  you  must 
eat  it  as  a  ravenous  child,  in  memorable  twilights,  before 


I   REMEMBER  91 

the  lighting  of  the  week-day  lamp.  Then  you  must  have 
yourself  removed  from  the  house  of  your  simple  feast, 
across  the  oceans,  to  a  land  where  your  cherished  pas- 
try is  unknown  even  by  name;  and  where  daylight  and 
twilight,  work  day  and  fete  day,  for  years  rush  by  you 
in  the  unbroken  tide  of  a  strange,  new,  overfull  life. 
You  must  abstain  from  the  inimitable  morsel  for  a 
period  of  years,  —  I  think  fifteen  is  the  magic  number, 
—  and  then  suddenly,  one  day,  rub  the  Aladdin's  lamp 
of  memory,  and  have  the  renowned  tidbit  whisked  upon 
your  platter,  garnished  with  a  hundred  sweet  herbs  of 
past  association. 

Do  you  think  all  your  imported  spices,  all  your  scien- 
tific blending  and  manipulating,  could  produce  so  fra- 
grant a  morsel  as  that  which  I  have  on  my  tongue  as  I 
write?  Glad  am  I  that  my  mother,  in  her  assiduous 
imitation  of  everything  American,  has  forgotten  the 
secrets  of  Polotzk  cookery.  At  any  rate,  she  does  not 
practise  it,  and  I  am  the  richer  in  memories  for  her 
omissions.  Polotzk  cheese  cake,  as  I  now  know  it,  has  in 
it  the  flavor  of  daisies  and  clover  picked  on  the  Vail;  the 
sweetness  of  Dvina  water;  the  richness  of  newly  turned 
earth  which  I  moulded  with  bare  feet  and  hands;  the  ripe- 
ness of  red  cherries  bought  by  the  dipperf  ul  in  the  mar- 
ket place;  the  fragrance  of  all  my  childhood's  summers. 

Abstinence,  as  I  have  mentioned,  is  one  of  the  essen- 
tial ingredients  in  the  phantom  dish.  I  discovered  this 
through  a  recent  experience.  It  was  cherry  time  in  the 
country,  and  the  sight  of  the  scarlet  fruit  suddenly 
reminded  me  of  a  cherry  season  in  Polotzk,  I  could  not 
say  how  many  years  ago.  On  that  earlier  occasion  my 
Cousin  Shimke,  who,  like  everybody  else,  was  a  store- 
keeper, had  set  a  boy  to  watch  her  store,  and  me  to 


92  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

watch  the  boy,  while  she  went  home  to  make  cherry 
preserves.  She  gave  us  a  basket  of  cherries  for  our 
trouble,  and  the  boy  offered  to  eat  them  with  the  stones 
if  I  would  give  him  my  share.  But  I  was  equal  to  that 
feat  myself,  so  we  sat  down  to  a  cherry-stone  contest. 
Who  ate  the  most  stones  I  could  not  remember  as  I 
stood  under  the  laden  trees  not  long  ago,  but  the  trans- 
cendent flavor  of  the  historical  cherries  came  back  to 
me,  and  I  needs  must  enjoy  it  once  more. 

I  climbed  into  the  lowest  boughs  and  hung  there, 
eating  cherries  with  the  stones,  my  whole  mind  concen- 
trated on  the  sense  of  taste.  Alas !  the  fruit  had  no  such 
flavor  to  yield  as  I  sought.  Excellent  American  cherries 
were  these,  but  not  so  fragrantly  sweet  as  my  cousin's 
cherries.  And  if  I  should  return  to  Polotzk,  and  buy  me 
a  measure  of  cherries  at  a  market  stall,  and  pay  for  it 
with  a  Russian  groschen,  would  the  market  woman  be 
generous  enough  to  throw  in  that  haunting  flavor?  I 
fear  I  should  find  that  the  old  species  of  cherry  is  extinct 
in  Polotzk. 

Sometimes,  when  I  am  not  trying  to  remember  at  all, 
I  am  more  fortunate  in  extracting  the  flavors  of  past 
feasts  from  my  plain  American  viands.  I  was  eating 
strawberries  the  other  day,  ripe,  red  American  straw- 
berries. Suddenly  I  experienced  the  very  flavor  and 
aroma  of  some  strawberries  I  ate  perhaps  twenty  years 
ago.  I  started  as  from  a  shock,  and  then  sat  still  for  I  do 
not  know  how  long,  breathless  with  amazement.  In  the 
brief  interval  of  a  gustatory  perception  I  became  a  child 
again,  and  I  positively  ached  with  the  pain  of  being  so 
suddenly  compressed  to  that  small  being.  I  wandered 
about  Polotzk  once  more,  with  large,  questioning  eyes; 
I  rode  the  Atlantic  in  an  emigrant  ship;  I  took  posses- 


I   REMEMBER  93 

sion  of  the  New  World,  my  ears  growing  accustomed  to 
a  new  language;  I  sat  at  the  feet  of  renowned  professors, 
till  my  eyes  contracted  in  dreaming  over  what  they 
taught;  and  there  I  was  again,  an  American  among 
Americans,  suddenly  made  aware  of  all  that  I  had  been, 
all  that  I  had  become  —  suddenly  illuminated,  inspired 
by  a  complete  vision  of  myself,  a  daughter  of  Israel  and 
a  child  of  the  universe,  that  taught  me  more  of  the  his- 
tory of  my  race  than  ever  my  learned  teachers  could 
understand. 

All  this  came  to  me  in  that  instant  of  tasting,  all  from 
the  flavor  of  ripe  strawberries  on  my  tongue.  Why, 
then,  should  I  not  treasure  my  memories  of  childhood 
feasts?  This  experience  gives  me  a  great  respect  for  my 
bread  and  meat.  I  want  to  taste  of  as  many  viands  as 
possible;  for  when  I  sit  down  to  a  dish  of  porridge  I  am 
certain  of  rising  again  a  better  animal,  and  I  may  rise  a 
wiser  man.  I  want  to  eat  and  drink  and  be  instructed. 
Some  day  I  expect  to  extract  from  my  pudding  the 
flavor  of  manna  which  I  ate  in  the  desert,  and  then  I 
shall  write  you  a  contemporaneous  commentary  on  the 
Exodus.  Nor  do  I  despair  of  remembering  yet,  over  a 
dish  of  corn,  the  time  when  I  fed  on  worms;  and  then  I 
may  be  able  to  recall  how  it  felt  to  be  made  at  last  into  a 
man.  Give  me  to  eat  and  drink,  for  I  crave  wisdom. 

My  winters,  while  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  were  passed 
in  comparative  confinement.  On  account  of  my  delicate 
health,  my  grandmother  and  aunts  deemed  it  wise  to 
keep  me  indoors;  or  if  I  went  out,  I  was  so  heavily 
coated  and  mittened  and  shawled  that  the  frost  scarcely 
got  a  chance  at  the  tip  of  my  nose.  I  never  skated  or 
coasted  or  built  snow  houses.   If  I  had  any  experience 


94  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

of  snowballs,  it  was  with  those  thrown  at  me  by  the 
Gentile  boys.  The  way  I  dodge  a  snowball  to  this  day 
makes  me  certain  that  I  learned  the  act  in  my  fear- 
ful childhood  days,  when  I  learned  so  many  cowardly 
tricks  of  bending  to  a  blow.  I  know  that  I  was  proud  of 
myself  when,  not  many  years  ago,  I  found  I  was  not 
afraid  to  stand  up  and  catch  a  flying  baseball;  but  the 
fear  of  the  snowball  I  have  not  conquered.  When  I  turn 
a  corner  in  snowball  days,  the  boys  with  bulging  pockets 
see  a  head  held  high  and  a  step  unquickened,  but  I  know 
that  I  cringe  inwardly;  and  this  private  mortification  I 
set  down  against  old  Polotzk,  in  my  long  score  of  griev- 
ances and  shames.  Fear  is  a  devil  hard  to  cast  out. 

Let  me  make  the  most  of  the  winter  adventures  that 
I  recall.  First,  there  was  sleighing.  We  never  kept 
horses  of  our  own,  but  the  horses  of  our  customer-guests 
were  always  at  our  disposal,  and  many  a  jolly  ride  they 
gave  us,  with  the  dvornik  at  the  reins,  while  their 
owners  haggled  with  my  mother  in  the  store  about  the 
price  of  soap.  We  had  no  luxurious  sleigh,  with  cush- 
ions and  fur  robes,  no  silver  bells  on  our  harness.  Ours 
was  a  bare  sledge  used  for  hauling  wood,  with  a  padding 
of  straw  and  burlap,  and  the  reins,  as  likely  as  not,  were 
a  knotted  rope.  But  the  horses  did  fly,  over  the  river 
and  up  the  opposite  bank  if  we  chose;  and  whether  we 
had  bells  or  not,  the  merry,  foolish  heart  of  Yakub 
would  sing,  and  the  whip  would  crack,  and  we  children 
would  laugh;  and  the  sport  was  as  good  as  when,  occa- 
sionally, we  did  ride  in  a  more  splendid  sleigh,  loaned  us 
by  one  of  our  prouder  guests.  We  were  wholesome  as 
apples  to  look  at  when  we  returned  for  bread  and  tea  in 
the  dusk;  at  least  I  remember  my  sister,  with  cheeks 
as  red  as  a  painted  doll's  under  her  close-clipped  curls; 


I   REMEMBER  95 

and  my  little  brother,  rosy,  too,  and  aristocratic-looking 
enough,  in  his  little  greatcoat  tied  with  a  red  sash,  and 
little  fur  cap  with  earlaps.  For  myself,  I  suppose  my 
nose  was  purple  and  my  cheeks  pinched,  just  as  they  are 
now  in  the  cold  weather;  but  I  had  a  good  time. 

At  certain  —  I  mean  uncertain  —  intervals  we  were 
bundled  up  and  marched  to  the  public  baths.  This  was 
so  great  an  undertaking,  consuming  half  a  day  or  so, 
and  involving,  in  winter,  such  risk  of  catching  cold,  that 
it  is  no  wonder  the  ceremony  was  not  practised  of tener. 

The  public  baths  were  situated  on  the  river  bank.  I 
always  stopped  awhile  outside,  to  visit  the  poor  patient 
horse  in  the  treadmill,  by  means  of  which  the  water  was 
pumped  into  the  baths.  I  was  not  sentimental  about 
animals  then.  I  had  not  read  of  "Black  Beauty  "  or  any 
other  personified  monsters;  I  had  not  heard  of  any  socie- 
ties for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  anything.  But  my 
pity  stirred  of  its  own  accord  at  the  sight  of  that  miser- 
able brute  in  the  treadmill.  I  was  used  to  seeing  horses 
hard- worked  and  abused.  This  horse  had  no  load  to 
make  him  sweat,  and  I  never  saw  him  whipped.  Yet  I 
pitied  this  creature.  Round  and  round  his  little  circle 
he  trod,  with  head  hanging  and  eyes  void  of  expecta- 
tion; round  and  round  all  day,  unthrilled  by  any  touch 
of  rein  or  bridle,  interpreters  of  a  living  will;  round  and 
round,  all  solitary,  never  driven,  never  checked,  never 
addressed;  round  and  round  and  round,  a  walking 
machine,  with  eyes  that  did  not  flash,  with  teeth  that 
did  not  threaten,  with  hoofs  that  did  not  strike;  round 
and  round  the  dull  day  long.  I  knew  what  a  horse's  life 
should  be,  entangled  with  the  life  of  a  master:  adven- 
turous, troubled,  thrilled;  petted  and  opposed,  loved 
and  abused;  to-day  the  ringing  city  pavement  under- 


96  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

foot,  and  the  buzz  of  beasts  and  men  in  the  market 
place;  to-morrow  the  yielding  turf  under  tickled  flanks, 
and  the  lone  whinny  of  scattered  mates.  How  empty  the 
existence  of  the  treadmill  horse  beside  this!  As  empty 
and  endless  and  dull  as  the  life  of  almost  any  woman  in 
Polotzk,  had  I  had  eyes  to  see  the  likeness. 

But  to  my  ablutions ! 

We  undress  in  a  room  leading  directly  from  the  entry, 
and  furnished  only  with  benches  around  the  walls. 
There  is  no  screen  or  other  protection  against  the  drafts 
rushing  in  every  time  the  door  is  opened.  When  we 
enter  the  bathing-room  we  are  confused  by  a  babel  of 
sounds —  shrill  voices  of  women,  hoarse  voices  of  attend- 
ants, wailing  and  yelping  of  children,  and  rushing  of 
water.  At  the  same  time  we  are  smitten  by  the  heat  of 
the  room  and  nearly  suffocated  by  clouds  of  steam.  We 
find  at  last  an  empty  bench,  and  surround  ourselves 
with  a  semicircle  of  wooden  pails,  collected  from  all 
around  the  room.  Sometimes  two  women  in  search  of 
pails  lay  hold  of  the  same  pail  at  the  same  moment,  and 
a  wrangle  ensues,  in  the  course  of  which  each  disputant 
reminds  the  other  of  all  her  failings,  nicknames,  and 
undesirable  connections,  living,  dead,  and  unborn;  until 
an  attendant  interferes,  with  more  muscle  than  argu- 
ment, punctuating  the  sentence  of  justice  with  newly 
coined  expletives  suggested  by  the  occasion.  The  cen- 
tre of  the  room,  where  the  bathers  fill  their  pails  at 
the  faucets,  is  a  field  of  endless  battle,  especially  on  a 
crowded  day.  The  peaceful  women  seated  within  ear- 
shot stop  their  violent  scrubbing,  to  the  relief  of  un- 
willing children,  while  they  attend  to  the  liveliest  of 
the  quarrels. 

I  like  to  watch  the  poll,  that  place  of  torture  and  heroic 


I   REMEMBER  97 

endurance.  It  is  a  series  of  steps  rising  to  the  ceiling, 
affording  a  gradually  mounting  temperature.  The 
bather  who  wants  to  enjoy  a  violent  sweating  rests  full 
length  for  a  few  minutes  on  each  step,  while  an  at- 
tendant administers  several  hearty  strokes  of  a  stinging 
besom.  Sometimes  a  woman  climbs  too  far,  and  is 
brought  down  in  a  faint.  On  the  poll,  also,  the  cupping 
is  done.  The  back  of  the  patient,  with  the  cups  in  even 
rows,  looks  to  me  like  a  muffin  pan.  Of  course  I  never 
go  on  the  poll:  I  am  not  robust  enough.  My  spankings  I 
take  at  home. 

Another  centre  of  interest  is  the  mikweh,  the  name  of 
which  it  is  indelicate  to  mention  in  the  hearing  of  men. 
It  is  a  large  pool  of  standing  water,  its  depth  graded  by 
means  of  a  flight  of  steps.  Every  married  woman  must 
perform  here  certain  ceremonious  ablutions  at  regular 
intervals.  Cleanliness  is  as  strictly  enjoined  as  godliness, 
and  the  manner  of  attaining  it  is  carefully  prescribed. 
The  women  are  prepared  by  the  attendants  for  entering 
the  pool,  the  curious  children  looking  on.  In  the  pool 
they  are  ducked  over  their  heads  the  correct  number  of 
times.  The  water  in  the  pool  has  been  standing  for  days; 
it  does  not  look  nor  smell  fresh.  But  we  had  no  germs  in 
Polotzk,  so  no  harm  came  of  it,  any  more  than  of  the 
pails  used  promiscuously  by  feminine  Polotzk.  If  any 
were  so  dainty  as  to  have  second  thoughts  about  the 
use  of  the  common  bath,  they  could  enjoy,  for  a  fee  of 
twenty-five  kopecks,  a  private  bathtub  in  another  part 
of  the  building.  For  the  rich  there  were  luxuries  even  in 
Polotzk. 

Cleansed,  red-skinned,  and  steaming,  we  return  at 
last  to  the  dressing-room,  to  shiver,  as  we  dress,  in  the 
cold  drafts  from  the  entry  door;  and  then,  muffled  up  to 


98  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

the  eyes,  we  plunge  into  the  refreshing  outer  air,  and 
hurry  home,  looking  like  so  many  big  bundles  running 
away  with  smaller  bundles.  If  we  meet  acquaintances 
on  the  way  we  are  greeted  with  "zu  refueh"  ("to  your 
good  health  ").  If  the  first  man  we  meet  is  a  Gentile,  the 
women  who  have  been  to  the  mikweh  have  to  return  and 
repeat  the  ceremony  of  purification.  To  prevent  such 
a  calamity,  the  kerchief  is  worn  hooded  over  the  eyes, 
so  as  to  exclude  unholy  sights.  At  home  we  are  indulged 
with  extra  pieces  of  cake  for  tea,  and  otherwise  treated 
like  heroes  returned  from  victory.  We  narrate  anecdotes 
of  our  expedition,  and  my  mother  complains  that  my 
little  brother  is  getting  too  old  to  be  taken  to  the 
women's  bath.  He  will  go  hereafter  with  the  men. 

My  winter  confinement  was  not  shared  by  my  older 
sister,  who  otherwise  was  my  constant  companion.  She 
went  out  more  than  I,  not  being  so  afraid  of  the  cold. 
She  used  to  fret  so  when  my  mother  was  away  in  the 
store  that  it  became  a  custom  for  her  to  accompany  my 
mother  from  the  time  she  was  a  mere  baby.  Muffled 
and  rosy  and  frost-bitten,  the  tears  of  cold  rolling  un- 
noticed down  her  plump  cheeks,  she  ran  after  my  busy 
mother  all  day  long,  or  tumbled  about  behind  the  coun- 
ter, or  nestled  for  a  nap  among  the  bulging  sacks  of  oats 
and  barley.  She  warmed  her  little  hands  over  my 
mother's  pot  of  glowing  charcoal  —  there  was  no  stove 
in  the  store  —  and  even  learned  to  stand  astride  of  it, 
for  further  comfort,  without  setting  her  clothes  on  fire. 

Fetchke  was  like  a  young  colt  inseparable  from  the 
mare.  I  make  this  comparison  not  in  disrespectful  jest, 
but  in  deepest  pity.  Fetchke  kept  close  to  my  mother  at 
first  for  love  and  protection,  but  the  petting  she  got  be- 
came a  blind  for  discipline.  She  learned  early,  from  my 


I  REMEMBER  99 

mother's  example,  that  hands  and  feet  and  brains  were 
made  for  labor.  She  learned  to  bow  to  the  yoke,  to  lift 
burdens,  to  do  more  for  others  than  she  could  ever  hope 
to  have  done  for  her  in  turn.  She  learned  to  see  sugar 
plums  lie  around  without  asking  for  her  share.  When 
she  was  only  fit  to  nurse  her  dolls,  she  learned  how  to 
comfort  a  weary  heart. 

And  all  this  while  I  sat  warm  and  watched  over  at 
home,  untouched  by  any  discipline  save  such  as  I  di- 
rectly incurred  by  my  own  sins.  I  differed  from  Fetchke 
a  little  in  age,  considerably  in  health,  and  enormously 
in  luck.  It  was  my  good  luck,  in  the  first  place,  to  be 
born  after  her,  instead  of  before;  in  the  second  place, 
to  inherit,  from  the  family  stock,  that  particular  assort- 
ment of  gifts  which  was  sure  to  mark  me  for  special 
attentions,  exemptions,  and  privileges;  and  as  fortune 
always  smiles  on  good  fortune,  it  has  ever  been  my  luck, 
in  the  third  place,  to  find  something  good  in  my  idle 
hand  —  whether  a  sunbeam,  or  a  loving  heart,  or  a 
congenial  task  —  whenever,  on  turning  a  corner,  I  put 
out  my  hand  to  see  what  my  new  world  was  like;  while 
my  sister,  dear,  devoted  creature,  had  her  hands  so  full 
of  work  that  the  sunbeam  slipped,  and  the  loving  com- 
rade passed  out  of  hearing  before  she  could  straighten 
from  her  task,  and  all  she  had  of  the  better  world  was  a 
scented  zephyr  fanned  in  her  face  by  the  irresistible 
closing  of  a  door. 

Perhaps  Esau  has  been  too  severely  blamed  for  selling 
his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  The  lot  of  the  first- 
born is  not  necessarily  to  be  envied.  The  firstborn  of  a 
well-to-do  patriarch,  like  Isaac,  or  of  a  Rothschild  of 
to-day,  inherits,  with  his  father's  flocks  and  slaves  and 
coffers,  a  troop  of  cares  and  responsibilities;  unless  he  be 


100  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

a  man  without  a  sense  of  duty,  in  which  case  we  are 
not  supposed  to  envy  him.  The  firstborn  of  an  indigent 
father  inherits  a  double  measure  of  the  disadvantages  of 
poverty,  —  a  joyless  childhood,  a  guideless  youth,  and 
perhaps  a  mateless  manhood,  his  own  life  being  drained 
to  feed  the  young  of  his  father's  begetting.  If  we  can- 
not do  away  with  poverty  entirely,  we  ought  at  least  to 
abolish  the  institution  of  primogeniture.  Nature  in- 
vented the  individual,  and  promised  him,  as  a  reward  for 
lusty  being,  comfort  and  immortality.  Comes  man  with 
his  patented  brains  and  copyrighted  notions,  and  levies 
a  tax  on  the  individual,  in  the  form  of  enforced  cooper- 
ation, for  the  maintenance  of  his  pet  institution,  the 
family.  Our  comfort,  in  the  grip  of  this  tyranny,  must 
lie  in  the  hope  that  man,  who  is  no  bastard  child  of 
Mother  Nature,  may  be  approaching  a  more  perfect 
resemblance  to  her  majestic  features;  that  his  fitful 
development  will  culminate  in  a  spiritual  constitution 
capable  of  absolute  justice. 

I  think  I  was  telling  how  I  stayed  at  home  in  the  win- 
ter, while  my  sister  helped  or  hindered  my  mother  in  her 
store-keeping.  The  days  drew  themselves  out  too  long 
sometimes,  so  that  I  sat  at  the  window  thinking  what 
should  happen  next.  No  dolls,  no  books,  no  games,  and 
at  times  no  companions.  My  grandmother  taught  me 
knitting,  but  I  never  got  to  the  heel  of  my  stocking, 
because  if  I  discovered  a  dropped  stitch  I  insisted  on 
unravelling  all  my  work  till  I  picked  it  up;  and  grand- 
mother, instead  of  encouraging  me  in  my  love  for 
perfection,  lost  patience  and  took  away  my  knitting 
needles.  I  still  maintain  that  she  was  in  the  wrong,  but 
I  have  forgiven  her,  since  I  have  worn  many  pairs  of 


I   REMEMBER  101 

stockings  with  dropped  stitches,  and  been  grateful  for 
them.  And  speaking  of  such  everyday  things  reminds 
me  of  my  friends,  among  whom  also  I  find  an  impressive 
number  with  a  stitch  dropped  somewhere  in  the  pattern 
of  their  souls.  I  love  these  friends  so  dearly  that  I  begin 
to  think  I  am  at  last  shedding  my  intolerance;  for  I 
remember  the  day  when  I  could  not  love  less  than  per- 
fection. I  and  my  imperfect  friends  together  aspire  to 
cast  our  blemishes,  and  I  am  happier  so. 

There  was  not  much  to  see  from  my  window,  yet 
adventures  beckoned  to  me  from  the  empty  street. 
Sometimes  the  adventure  was  real,  and  I  went  out  to 
act  in  it,  instead  of  dreaming  on  my  stool.  Once,  I 
remember,  it  was  early  spring,  and  the  winter's  ice,  just 
chopped  up  by  the  street  cleaners,  lay  muddy  and 
ragged  and  high  in  the  streets  from  curb  to  curb.  So  it 
must  lie  till  there  was  time  to  cart  it  to  the  Dvina, 
which  had  all  it  could  do  at  this  season  to  carry  tons, 
and  heavy  tons,  of  ice  and  snow  and  every  sort  of  city 
rubbish,  accumulated  during  the  long  closed  months. 
Polotzk  had  no  underground  communication  with  the 
sea,  save  such  as  water  naturally  makes  for  itself.  The 
poor  old  Dvina  was  hard-worked,  serving  both  as 
drinking-fountain  and  sewer,  as  a  bridge  in  winter,  a 
highway  in  summer,  and  a  playground  at  all  times.  So 
it  served  us  right  if  we  had  to  wait  weeks  and  weeks  in 
thawing  time  for  our  streets  to  be  cleared;  and  we  de- 
served all  the  sprains  and  bruises  we  suffered  from  clam- 
bering over  the  broken  ice  in  the  streets  while  going 
about  our  business. 

Leah  the  Short,  little  and  straight  and  neat,  with  a 
basket  on  one  arm  and  a  bundle  under  the  other,  stood 
hesitating  on  the  edge  of  the  curb  opposite  my  window. 


102  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

Her  poor  old  face,  framed  in  its  calico  kerchief,  had  a 
wrinkle  of  anxiety  in  it.  The  tumbled  ice  heap  in  the 
street  looked  to  her  like  an  impassable  barrier.  Tiny  as 
she  was,  and  loaded,  she  had  reason  to  hesitate.  Per- 
haps she  had  eggs  in  her  basket,  —  I  thought  of  that  as 
I  looked  at  her  across  the  street;  and  I  thought  of  my 
old  ambition  to  measure  myself,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
with  Leah,  reputedly  short.  I  was  small  myself,  and  was 
constantly  reminded  of  it  by  a  variety  of  nicknames, 
lovingly  or  vengefully  invented  by  my  friends  and  ene- 
mies. I  was  called  Mouse  and  Crumb  and  Poppy  Seed. 
Should  I  live  to  be  called,  in  my  old  age,  Mashke  the 
Short?  I  longed  to  measure  my  stature  by  Leah's,  and 
here  was  my  chance. 

I  ran  out  into  the  street,  my  grandmother  scolding 
me  for  going  without  a  shawl,  and  I  calling  back  to  her 
to  be  sure  and  watch  me.  I  skipped  over  the  ice  blocks 
like  a  goat,  and  offered  my  assistance  to  Leah  the  Short. 
With  admirable  skill  and  solicitude  I  guided  her  timid 
steps  across  the  street,  at  the  same  time  winking  to  my 
grandmother  at  the  window,  and  pointing  to  my  shoul- 
der close  to  Leah's.  Once  on  the  safe  sidewalk,  the  tiny 
woman  thanked  me  and  blessed  me  and  praised  me  for  a 
thoughtful  child;  and  I  watched  her  toddle  away  with- 
out the  least  stir  of  shame  at  my  hypocrisy.  She  had 
convinced  me  that  I  was  a  good  little  girl,  and  I  had  con- 
vinced myself  that  I  was  not  so  very  short.  My  chin 
was  almost  on  a  level  with  Leah's  shoulder,  and  I  had 
years  ahead  in  which  to  elevate  it.  Grandma  at  the 
window  was  witness,  and  I  was  entirely  happy.  If  I 
caught  cold  from  going  bareheaded,  so  much  the  better; 
mother  would  give  me  rock  candy  for  my  cough. 

For  the  long  winter  evenings  there  was  plenty  of  quiet 


I  REMEMBER  103 

occupation.  I  liked  to  sit  with  the  women  at  the  long 
bare  table  picking  feathers  for  new  featherbeds.  It  was 
pleasant  to  poke  my  hand  into  the  soft-heaped  mass  and 
set  it  all  in  motion.  I  pretended  that  I  could  pick  out 
the  feathers  of  particular  hens,  formerly  my  pets.  I 
reflected  that  they  had  fed  me  with  eggs  and  broth,  and 
now  were  going  to  make  my  bed  so  soft;  while  I  had  done 
nothing  for  them  but  throw  them  a  handful  of  oats  now 
and  then,  or  chase  them  about,  or  spoil  their  nests.  I 
was  not  ashamed  of  my  part;  I  knew  that  if  I  were  a 
hen  I  should  do  as  a  hen  does.  I  just  liked  to  think 
about  things  in  my  idle  way. 

Itke,  the  housemaid,  was  always  the  one  to  break  in 
upon  my  reflections.  She  was  sure  to  have  a  fit  of  sneez- 
ing just  when  the  heap  on  the  table  was  highest,  sending 
clouds  of  feathers  into  the  air,  like  a  homemade  snow- 
storm. After  that  the  evening  was  finished  by  our 
picking  the  feathers  from  each  other's  hair. 

Sometimes  we  played  cards  or  checkers,  munching 
frost-bitten  apples  between  moves.  Sometimes  the 
women  sewed,  and  we  children  wound  yarn  or  worsted 
for  grandmother's  knitting.  If  somebody  had  a  story  to 
tell  while  the  rest  worked,  the  evening  passed  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  semi-idleness  for  all. 

On  a  Saturday  night,  the  Sabbath  being  just  de- 
parted, ghost  stories  were  particularly  in  favor.  After 
two  or  three  of  the  creepy  legends  we  began  to  move 
closer  together  under  the  lamp.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  or 
so  we  started  and  screamed  if  a  spool  fell,  or  a  window 
rattled.  At  bedtime  nobody  was  willing  to  make  the 
round  of  doors  and  windows,  and  we  were  afraid  to  bring 
a  candle  into  a  dark  room. 
\  I  was  just  as  much  afraid  as  anybody.   I  am  afraid 


104  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

now  to  be  alone  in  the  house  at  night.  I  certainly  was 
afraid  that  Saturday  night  when  somebody,  in  bravado, 
suggested  fresh-baked  buns,  as  a  charm  to  dispel  the 
ghosts.  The  baker  who  lived  next  door  always  baked  on 
Saturday  night.  Who  would  go  and  fetch  the  buns? 
Nobody  dared  to  venture  outdoors.  It  had  snowed  all 
evening;  the  frosted  windows  prevented  a  preliminary 
survey  of  the  silent  night.  Brr-rr  I  Nobody  would  take 
the  dare. 

Nobody  but  me.  Oh,  how  the  creeps  ran  up  and  down 
my  back!  and  oh!  how  I  loved  to  distinguish  myself!  I 
let  them  bundle  me  up  till  I  was  nearly  smothered.  I 
paused  with  my  mittened  hand  on  the  latch.  I  shivered, 
though  I  could  have  sat  the  night  out  with  a  Polar  bear 
without  another  shawl.  I  opened  the  door,  and  then 
turned  back,  to  make  a  speech. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  I  said,  in  the  noble  accents  of 
courage.    "I  am  not  afraid  to  go.    God  goes  with  me." 

Pride  goeth  before  a  fall.  On  the  step  outside  I  slid 
down  into  a  drift,  just  on  the  eve  of  triumph.  They 
picked  me  up;  they  brought  me  in.  They  found  all  of 
me  inside  my  wrappings.  They  gave  me  a  piece  of  sugar 
and  sent  me  to  bed.  And  I  was  very  glad.  I  did  hate  to 
go  all  the  way  next  door  and  all  the  way  back,  through 
the  white  snow,  under  the  white  stars,  invisible  company 
keeping  step  with  me. 

And  I  remember  my  playmates. 

There  was  always  a  crowd  of  us  girls.  We  were  a 
mixed  set,  —  rich  little  girls,  well-to-do  little  girls,  and 
poor  little  girls,  —  but  not  because  we  were  so  demo- 
cratic. Rather  it  came  about,  if  my  sister  and  I  are 
considered   the   centre  of   the  ring,   because   we  had 


I  REMEMBER  105 

suffered  the  several  grades  of  fortune.  In  our  best  days 
no  little  girls  had  to  stoop  to  us;  in  our  humbler  days  we 
were  not  so  proud  that  we  had  to  condescend  to  our 
chance  neighbors.  The  granddaughters  of  Raphael  the 
Russian,  in  retaining  their  breeding  and  manners,  re- 
tained a  few  of  their  more  exalted  friends,  and  became  a 
link  between  them  and  those  whom  they  later  adopted 
through  force  of  propinquity. 

We  were  human  little  girls,  so  our  amusements  mim- 
icked the  life  about  us.  We  played  house,  we  played 
soldiers,  we  played  Gentiles,  we  celebrated  weddings  and 
funerals.  We  copied  the  life  about  us  literally.  We  had 
not  been  to  a  Froebel  kindergarten,  and  learned  to  im- 
personate butterflies  and  stones.  Our  elders  would  have 
laughed  at  us  for  such  nonsense.  I  remember  once 
standing  on  the  river  bank  with  a  little  boy,  when  a 
quantity  of  lumber  was  floating  down  on  its  way  to  the 
distant  sawmill.  A  log  and  a  board  crowded  each  other 
near  where  we  stood.  The  board  slipped  by  first,  but 
presently  it  swerved  and  swung  partly  around.  Then 
it  righted  itself  with  the  stream  and  kept  straight  on, 
the  lazy  log  following  behind.  Said  Zalmen  to  me, 
interpreting:  "The  board  looks  back  and  says,  'Log, 
log,  you  will  not  go  with  me?  Then  I  will  go  on  by 
myself."1'  That  boy  was  called  simple,  on  account  of 
such  speeches  as  this.  I  wonder  in  what  language  he  is 
writing  poetry  now. 

We  had  very  few  toys.  Neither  Fetchke  nor  I  cared 
much  for  dolls.  A  rag  baby  apiece  contented  us,  and  if 
we  had  a  set  of  jackstones  we  were  perfectly  happy. 
Our  jackstones,  by  the  way,  were  not  stones  but  bones. 
We  used  the  knuckle  bones  of  sheep,  dried  and  scraped; 
every  little  girl  cherished  a  set  in  her  pocket. 


106  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

I  did  not  care  much  for  playing  house.  I  liked  soldiers 
better,  but  it  was  not  much  fun  without  boys.  Boys  and 
girls  always  played  apart. 

I  was  very  fond  of  playing  Gentiles.  I  am  afraid  I 
liked  everything  that  was  a  little  risky.  I  particularly 
enjoyed  being  the  corpse  in  a  Gentile  funeral.  I  was 
laid  across  two  chairs,  and  my  playmates,  in  borrowed 
shawls  and  long  calicoes,  with  their  hair  loose  and  with 
candlesticks  in  their  hands,  marched  around  me,  sing- 
ing unearthly  songs,  and  groaning  till  they  scared  them- 
selves. As  I  lay  there,  covered  over  with  a  black  cloth,  I 
felt  as  dead  as  dead  could  be;  and  my  playmates  were 
the  unholy  priests  in  gorgeous  robes  of  velvet  and  silk 
and  gold.  Their  candlesticks  were  the  crosiers  that  were 
carried  in  Christian  funeral  processions,  and  their  chant- 
ings  were  hideous  incantations  to  the  arch  enemy,  the 
Christian  God  of  horrible  images.  As  I  imagined  the 
bareheaded  crowds  making  way  for  my  funeral  to  pass, 
my  flesh  crept,  not  because  I  was  about  to  be  buried,  but 
because  the  people  crossed  themselves.  But  our  procession 
stopped  outside  the  church,  because  we  did  not  dare  to 
carry  even  our  make-believe  across  that  accursed  thresh- 
old. Besides,  none  of  us  had  ever  been  inside,  —  God 
forbid !  —  so  we  did  not  know  what  did  happen  next. 

When  I  arose  from  my  funeral  I  was  indeed  a  ghost.  I 
felt  unreal  and  lost  and  hateful.  I  don't  think  we  girls 
liked  each  other  much  after  playing  funeral.  Anyway, 
we  never  played  any  more  on  the  same  day;  or  if  we  did, 
we  soon  quarrelled.  Such  was  the  hold  which  our  hered- 
itary terrors  and  hatreds  had  upon  our  childish  minds 
that  if  we  only  mocked  a  Christian  procession  in  our 
play,  we  suffered  a  mutual  revulsion  of  feeling,  as  if  we 
had  led  each  other  into  sin. 


I  REMEMBER  107 

We  gathered  oftener  at  our  house  than  anywhere  else. 
On  Sabbath  days  we  refrained,  of  course,  from  soldiering 
and  the  like,  but  we  had  just  as  good  a  time,  going  off 
to  promenade,  two  and  two,  in  our  very  best  dresses; 
whispering  secrets  and  telling  stories.  We  had  a  few 
stories  in  the  circle  —  I  do  not  know  how  they  came  to 
us  —  and  these  were  told  over  and  over.  Gutke  knew 
the  best  story  of  all.  She  told  the  story  of  Aladdin  and 
the  Wonderful  Lamp,  and  she  told  it  well.  It  was  her 
story,  and  nobody  else  ever  attempted  it,  though  I,  for 
one,  soon  had  it  by  heart.  Gutke's  version  of  the  fa- 
mous tale  was  unlike  any  I  have  since  read,  but  it  was 
essentially  the  story  of  Aladdin,  so  that  I  was  able  to 
identify  it  later  when  I  found  it  in  a  book.  Names,  in- 
cidents, and  "local  color"  were  slightly  Hebraized,  but 
the  supernatural  wonders  of  treasure  caves,  jewelled 
gardens,  genii,  princesses,  and  all,  were  not  in  the  least 
marred  or  diminished.  Gutke  would  spin  the  story  out 
for  a  long  afternoon,  and  we  all  listened  entranced, 
even  at  the  hundredth  rehearsal.  We  had  a  few  other 
fairy  stories,  —  I  later  identified  them  with  stories  of 
Grimm's  or  of  Andersen's,  —  but  for  the  most  part 
the  tales  we  told  were  sombre  and  unimaginative; 
tales  our  nurses  used  to  tell  to  frighten  us  into  good 
behavior. 

Sometimes  we  spent  a  whole  afternoon  in  dancing. 
We  made  our  own  music,  singing  as  we  danced,  or  some- 
body blew  on  a  comb  with  a  bit  of  paper  over  its  teeth; 
and  comb  music  is  not  to  be  despised  when  there  is 
no  other  sort.  We  knew  the  polka  and  the  waltz,  the 
mazurka,  the  quadrille,  and  the  lancers,  and  several 
fancy  dances.  We  did  not  hesitate  to  invent  new  steps 
or  figures,  and  we  never  stopped  till  we  were  out  of 


108  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

breath.  I  was  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  dancers.  I 
danced  till  I  felt  as  if  I  could  fly. 

Sometimes  we  sat  in  a  ring  and  sang  all  the  songs  we 
knew.  None  of  us  were  trained,  —  we  had  never  seen  a 
sheet  of  music  —  but  some  of  us  could  sing  any  tune 
that  was  ever  heard  in  Polotzk,  and  the  others  followed 
half  a  bar  behind.  I  enjoyed  these  singing-bees.  We 
had  Hebrew  songs  and  Jewish  and  Russian;  solemn 
songs,  and  jolly  songs,  and  songs  unfit  for  children,  but 
harmless  enough  on  our  innocent  lips.  I  enjoyed  the 
play  of  moods  in  these  songs  —  I  liked  to  be  harrowed 
one  minute  and  tickled  the  next.  I  threw  all  my  heart 
into  the  singing,  which  was  only  fair,  as  I  had  very  little 
voice  to  throw  in. 

Although  I  always  joined  the  crowd  when  any  fun  was 
on  foot,  I  think  I  had  the  best  times  by  myself.  My 
sister  was  fond  of  housework,  but  I  —  I  was  fond  of 
idleness.  While  Petchke  pottered  in  the  kitchen  beside 
the  maid  or  trotted  all  about  the  house  after  my  grand- 
mother, I  wasted  time  in  some  window  corner,  or  studied 
the  habits  of  the  cow  and  the  chickens  in  the  yard.  I 
always  found  something  to  do  that  was  of  no  use  to  any- 
body. I  had  no  particular  fondness  for  animals;  I  liked 
to  see  what  they  did,  merely  because  they  were  curious. 
The  red  cow  would  go  to  meet  my  grandmother  as  she 
came  out  of  the  kitchen  with  a  bucket  of  bran  for  her. 
She  drank  it  up  in  no  time,  the  greedy  creature,  in  great 
loud  gulps;  and  then  she  stood  with  dripping  nostrils 
over  the  empty  bucket,  staring  at  me  on  the  other  side. 
I  teased  grandmother  to  give  the  cow  more,  because  I 
enjoyed  her  enjoyment  of  it.  I  wondered,  if  I  ate  from  a 
bucket  instead  of  a  plate,  should  I  take  so  much  more 
pleasure  in  my  dinner?  That  red  cow  liked  everything. 


I  REMEMBER  109 

She  liked  going  to  pasture,  and  she  liked  coming  back, 
and  she  stood  still  to  be  milked,  as  if  she  liked  that  too. 

The  chickens  were  not  all  alike.  Some  of  them  would 
not  let  me  catch  them,  while  others  stood  still  till  I  took 
them  up.  There  were  two  that  were  particularly  tame,  a 
white  hen  and  a  speckled  one.  In  winter,  when  they 
were  kept  in  the  house,  my  sister  and  I  had  these  two 
for  our  pets.  They  let  us  handle  them  by  the  hour,  and 
stayed  just  where  we  put  them.  The  white  hen  laid  her 
eggs  in  a  linen  chest  made  of  bark.  We  would  take  the 
warm  egg  to  grandmother,  who  rolled  it  on  our  eyes, 
repeating  this  charm:  "As  this  egg  is  fresh,  so  may  your 
eyes  be  fresh.  As  this  egg  is  sound,  so  may  your  eyes  be 
sound."  I  still  like  to  touch  my  eyelids  with  a  fresh-laid 
egg,  whenever  I  am  so  happy  as  to  possess  one. 

On  the  horses  in  the  barn  I  bestowed  the  same  calm 
attention  as  on  the  cow,,  speculative  rather  than  affec- 
tionate. I  was  not  a  very  tender-hearted  infant.  If  I 
have  been  a  true  witness  of  my  own  growth,  I  was  slower 
to  love  than  I  was  to  think.  I  do  not  know  when  the 
change  was  wrought,  but  to-day,  if  you  ask  my  friends, 
they  will  tell  you  that  I  know  how  to  love  them  better 
than  to  solve  their  problems.  And  if  you  will  call  one 
more  witness,  and  ask  me,  I  shall  say  that  if  you  set  me 
down  before  a  noble  landscape,  I  feel  it  long  before  I 
begin  to  see  it. 

Idle  child  though  I  was,  the  day  was  not  long  enough 
sometimes  for  my  idleness.  More  than  once  in  the  pleas- 
ant summer  I  stole  out  of  bed  when  even  the  cow  was 
still  drowsing,  and  went  barefoot  through  the  dripping 
grass  and  stood  at  the  gate,  awaiting  the  morning.  I 
found  a  sense  of  adventure  in  being  conscious  when 
all  other  people  were  asleep.    There  was  not  much  of 


110  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

a  prospect  from  the  gateway,  but  in  that  early  hour 
everything  looked  new  and  large  to  me,  even  the  little 
houses  that  yesterday  had  been  so  familiar.  The  houses, 
when  creatures  went  in  and  out  of  them,  were  merely 
conventional  objects;  in  the  soft  gray  morning  they 
were  themselves  creatures.  Some  stood  up  straight,  and 
some  leaned,  and  some  looked  as  if  they  saw  me.  And 
then  over  the  dewy  gardens  rose  the  sun,  and  the  light 
spread  and  grew  over  everything,  till  it  shone  on  my 
bare  feet.  And  in  my  heart  grew  a  great  wonder,  and  I 
was  ready  to  cry,  my  world  was  so  strange  and  sweet 
about  me.  In  those  moments,  I  think,  I  could  have 
loved  somebody  as  well  as  I  loved  later  —  somebody 
who  cared  to  get  up  secretly,  and  stand  and  see  the  sun 
come  up. 

Was  there  not  somebody  who  got  up  before  the  sun? 
Was  there  not  Mishka  the  shepherd?  Aye,  that  was  an 
early  riser;  but  I  knew  he  was  no  sun- worshipper.  Before 
the  chickens  stirred,  before  the  lazy  maid  let  the  cow  out 
of  the  barn,  I  heard  his  rousing  horn,  its  distant  notes 
harmonious  with  the  morning.  Barn  doors  creaked  in 
response  to  Mishka's  call,  and  soft-eyed  cattle  went 
willingly  out  to  meet  him,  and  stood  in  groups  in 
the  empty  square,  licking  and  nosing  each  other;  till 
Mishka's  little  drove  was  all  assembled,  and  he  tramped 
out  of  town  behind  them,  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE 

History  shows  that  in  all  countries  where  Jews  have 
equal  rights  with  the  rest  of  the  people,  they  lose  their 
fear  of  secular  science,  and  learn  how  to  take  their 
ancient  religion  with  them  from  century  to  awakening 
century,  dropping  nothing  by  the  way  but  what  their 
growing  spirit  has  outgrown.  In  countries  where  pro- 
gress is  to  be  bought  only  at  the  price  of  apostasy,  they 
shut  themselves  up  in  their  synagogues,  and  raise  the 
wall  of  extreme  separateness  between  themselves  and 
their  Gentile  neighbors.  There  is  never  a  Jewish  com- 
munity without  its  scholars,  but  where  Jews  may  not  be 
both  intellectuals  and  Jews,  they  prefer  to  remain  Jews. 

The  survival  in  Russia  of  mediaeval  injustice  to  Jews 
was  responsible  for  the  narrowness  of  educational 
standards  in  the  Polotzk  of  my  time.  Jewish  scholar- 
ship, as  we  have  seen,  was  confined  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  Hebrew  language  and  literature,  and  even  these 
limited  stores  of  learning  were  not  equally  divided  be- 
tween men  and  women.  In  the  mediaeval  position  of 
the  women  of  Polotzk  education  really  had  no  place.  A 
girl  was  "finished"  when  she  could  read  her  prayers  in 
Hebrew,  following  the  meaning  by  the  aid  of  the  Yiddish 
translation  especially  prepared  for  women.  If  she  could 
sign  her  name  in  Russian,  do  a  little  figuring,  and  write 
a  letter  in  Yiddish  to  the  parents  of  her  betrothed,  she 
was  called  wohl  gelehrent  —  well  educated. 

Fortunately  for  me,  my  parents'  ideals  soared  beyond 


112  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

all  this.  My  mother,  although  she  had  not  stirred  out  of 
Polotzk,  readily  adopted  the  notion  of  a  liberal  educa- 
tion imported  by  my  father  from  cities  beyond  the  Pale. 
She  heartily  supported  him  in  all  his  plans  for  us  girls. 
Fetchke  and  I  were  to  learn  to  translate  as  well  as  pro- 
nounce Hebrew,  the  same  as  our  brother.  We  were  to 
study  Russian  and  German  and  arithmetic.  We  were  to 
go  to  the  best  pension  and  receive  a  thorough  secular 
education.  My  father's  ambition,  after  several  years' 
sojourn  in  enlightened  circles,  reached  even  beyond  the 
pension  ;  but  that  was  flying  farther  than  Polotzk  could 
follow  him  with  the  naked  eye. 

I  do  not  remember  our  first  teacher.  When  our  second 
teacher  came  we  were  already  able  to  read  continuous 
passages.  Reb'  Lebe  was  no  great  scholar.  Great  schol- 
ars would  not  waste  their  learning  on  mere  girls.  Reb' 
Lebe  knew  enough  to  teach  girls  Hebrew.  Tall  and  lean 
was  the  rebbe,  with  a  lean,  pointed  face  and  a  thin, 
pointed  beard.  The  beard  became  pointed  from  much 
stroking  and  pulling  downwards.  The  hands  of  Reb' 
Lebe  were  large,  and  his  beard  was  not  half  a  handful. 
The  fingers  of  the  rebbe  were  long,  and  the  nails,  I  am 
afraid,  were  not  very  clean.  The  coat  of  Reb'  Lebe  was 
rusty,  and  so  was  his  skull-cap.  Remember,  Reb'  Lebe 
was  only  a  girls'  teacher,  and  nobody  would  pay  much 
for  teaching  girls.  But  lean  and  rusty  as  he  was,  the 
rebbe's  pupils  regarded  him  with  entire  respect,  and 
followed  his  pointer  with  earnest  eyes  across  the  limp 
page  of  the  alphabet,  or  the  thumbed  page  of  the  prayer- 
book. 

For  a  short  time  my  sister  and  I  went  for  our  lessons 
to  Reb'  Lebe's  heder,  in  the  bare  room  off  the  women's 
gallery,  up  one  flight  of  stairs,  in  a  synagogue.  The  place 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  113 

was  as  noisy  as  a  reckless  expenditure  of  lung  power 
could  make  it.  The  pupils  on  the  bench  shouted  their 
way  from  aleph  to  tav,  cheered  and  prompted  by  the 
growl  of  the  rebbe;  while  the  children  in  the  corridor 
waiting  their  turn  played  "puss  in  the  corner"  and  other 
noisy  games. 

Fetchke  and  I,  however,  soon  began  to  have  our  les- 
sons in  private,  at  our  own  home.  We  sat  one  on  each 
side  of  the  rebbe,  reading  the  Hebrew  sentences  turn  and 
turn  about. 

When  we  left  off  reading  by  rote  and  Reb'  Lebe  began 
to  reveal  the  mysteries  to  us,  I  was  so  eager  to  know  all 
that  was  in  my  book  that  the  lesson  was  always  too 
short.  I  continued  reading  by  the  hour,  after  the  rebbe 
was  gone,  though  I  understood  about  one  word  in  ten. 
My  favorite  Hebrew  reading  was  the  Psalms.  Verse 
after  verse  I  chanted  to  the  monotonous  tune  taught  by 
Reb'  Lebe,  rocking  to  the  rhythm  of  the  chant,  just  like 
the  rebbe.  And  so  ran  the  song  of  David,  and  so  ran  the 
hours  by,  while  I  sat  by  the  low  window,  the  world 
erased  from  my  consciousness. 

What  I  thought  I  do  not  remember;  I  only  know  that 
I  loved  the  sound  of  the  words,  the  full,  dense,  solid 
sound  of  them,  to  the  meditative  chant  of  Reb'  Lebe. 
I  pronounced  Hebrew  very  well,  and  I  caught  some 
mechanical  trick  of  accent  and  emphasis,  which  was 
sufficiently  like  Reb'  Lebe's  to  make  my  reading  sound 
intelligent.  I  had  a  clue  to  the  general  mood  of  the 
subject  from  the  few  Psalms  I  had  actually  translated, 
and  drawing  on  my  imagination  for  details,  I  was  able 
to  read  with  so  much  spirit  that  ignorant  listeners  were 
carried  away  by  my  performance.  My  mother  tells  me, 
indeed,  that  people  used  to  stop  outside  my  window  to 


114  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

hear  me  read.  Of  this  I  have  not  the  slightest  recollec- 
tion, so  I  suppose  I  was  an  unconscious  impostor. 
Certain  I  am  that  I  thought  no  ignoble  thoughts  as  I 
chanted  the  sacred  words;  and  who  can  say  that  my 
visions  were  not  as  inspiring  as  David's?  He  was  a 
shepherd  before  he  became  a  king.  I  was  an  ignorant 
child  in  the  Ghetto,  but  I  was  admitted  at  last  to  the 
society  of  the  best;  I  was  given  the  freedom  of  all 
America.  Perhaps  the  "stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of" 
is  the  same  for  all  dreamers. 

When  we  came  to  read  Genesis  I  had  the  great  ad- 
vantage of  a  complete  translation  in  Yiddish.  I  faith- 
fully studied  the  portion  assigned  in  Hebrew,  but  I  need 
no  longer  wait  for  the  next  lesson  to  know  how  the  story 
ends.  I  could  read  while  daylight  lasted,  if  I  chose, 
in  the  Yiddish.  Well  I  remember  that  Pentateuch,  a 
middling  thick  octavo  volume,  in  a  crumbly  sort  of 
leather  cover;  and  how  the  book  opened  of  itself  at 
certain  places,  where  there  were  pictures.  My  father 
tells  me  that  when  I  was  just  learning  to  translate  sin- 
gle words,  he  found  me  one  evening  poring  over  the 
humesh  and  made  fun  of  me  for  pretending  to  read; 
whereupon  I  gave  him  an  eager  account,  he  says,  of  the 
stories  of  Jacob,  Benjamin,  Moses,  and  others,  which  I 
had  puzzled  out  from  the  pictures,  by  the  help  of  a  word 
here  and  there  that  I  was  able  to  translate. 

It  was  inevitable,  as  we  came  to  Genesis,  that  I  should 
ask  questions. 

Bebbe,  translating:  "In  the  beginning  God  created 
the  earth." 

Pupil,  repeating:  "In  the  beginning  —  Rebbe,  when 
was  the  beginning?" 
\  Rebbe,  losing  the  place  in  amazement:  "'S  gehert  a 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  115 

Icasse?  (Ever  hear  such  a  question?)  The  beginning 
was  —  the  beginning  —  the  beginning  was  in  the  begin- 
ning, of  course!  Nul  nu!  Go  on." 

Pupil,  resuming:  "In  the  beginning  God  made  the 
earth.  —  Rebbe,  what  did  He  make  it  out  of?" 

Rebbe,  dropping  his  pointer  in  astonishment:  "What 
did  — ?  What  sort  of  a  girl  is  this,  that  asks  questions? 
Go  on,  go  on!" 

The  lesson  continues  to  the  end.  The  book  is  closed, 
the  pointer  put  away.  The  rebbe  exchanges  his  skull- 
cap for  his  street  cap,  is  about  to  go. 

Pupil,  timidly,  but  determinedly,  detaining  him: 
"Reb'  Lebe,  who  made  God?" 

The  rebbe  regards  the  pupil  in  amazement  mixed 
with  anxiety.  His  emotion  is  beyond  speech.  He  turns 
and  leaves  the  room.  In  his  perturbation  he  even  forgets 
to  kiss  the  mezuzah  1  on  the  doorpost.  The  pupil  feels 
reproved  and  yet  somehow  in  the  right.  Who  did  make 
God?  But  if  the  rebbe  will  not  tell  —  will  not  tell?  Or, 
perhaps,  he  does  not  know?  The  rebbe  — ? 

It  was  some  time  after  this  conflict  between  my 
curiosity  and  his  obtuseness  that  I  saw  my  teacher  act 
a  ridiculous  part  in  a  trifling  comedy,  and  then  I  re- 
member no  more  of  him. 

Reb'  Lebe  lingered  one  day  after  the  lesson.  A  guest 
who  was  about  to  depart,  wishing  to  fortify  himself  for 
his  journey,  took  a  roll  of  hard  sausage  from  his  satchel 
and  laid  it,  with  his  clasp  knife,  on  the  table.  He  cut 
himself  a  slice  and  ate  it  standing;  and  then,  noticing  the 
thin,  lean  rebbe,  he  invited  him,  by  a  gesture,  to  help 

1  A  piece  of  parchment  inscribed  with  a  passage  of  Scripture,  rolled  in  a 
case  and  tacked  to  the  doorpost.  The  pious  touch  or  kiss  this  when  leaving 
or  entering  a  house. 


116  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

himself  to  the  sausage.  The  rebbe  put  his  hands  behind 
his  coat  tails,  declining  the  traveller's  hospitality.  The 
traveller  forgot  the  other,  and  walked  up  and  down, 
ready  in  his  fur  coat  and  cap,  till  his  carriage  should 
arrive.  The  sausage  remained  on  the  table,  thick  and 
spicy  and  brown.  No  such  sausage  was  known  in 
Polotzk.  Reb'  Lebe  looked  at  it.  Reb'  Lebe  continued 
to  look.  The  stranger  stopped  to  cut  another  slice,  and 
repeated  his  gesture  of  invitation.  Reb'  Lebe  moved  a 
step  towards  the  table,  but  his  hands  stuck  behind  his 
coat  tails.  The  traveller  resumed  his  walk.  Reb'  Lebe 
moved  another  step.  The  stranger  was  not  looking. 
The  rebbe's  courage  rose,  he  advanced  towards  the 
table;  he  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  knife.  At  that 
instant  the  door  opened,  the  carriage  was  announced. 
The  eager  traveller,  without  noticing  Reb'  Lebe,  swept 
up  sausage  and  knife,  just  at  the  moment  when  the 
timid  rebbe  was  about  to  cut  himself  a  delicious  slice. 
I  saw  his  discomfiture  from  my  corner,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  confess  that  I  enjoyed  it.  His  face  always 
looked  foolish  to  me  after  that;  but,  fortunately  for  us 
both,  we  did  not  study  together  much  longer. 

Two  little  girls  dressed  in  their  best,  shining  from  their 
curls  to  their  shoes.  One  little  girl  has  rosy  cheeks,  the 
other  has  staring  eyes.  Rosy-Cheeks  carries  a  carpet 
bag;  Big-Eyes  carries  a  new  slate.  Hand  in  hand  they  go 
into  the  summer  morning,  so  happy  and  pretty  a  pair 
that  it  is  no  wonder  people  look  after  them,  from  window 
and  door;  and  that  other  little  girls,  not  dressed  in  their 
best  and  carrying  no  carpet  bags,  stand  in  the  street 
gaping  after  them. 

Let  the  folks  stare;  no  harm  can  come  to  the  little 


THE  TREE  OF   KNOWLEDGE  117 

sisters.  Did  not  grandmother  tie  pepper  and  salt  into 
the  corners  of  their  pockets,  to  ward  off  the  evil  eye? 
The  little  maids  see  nothing  but  the  road  ahead,  so 
eager  are  they  upon  their  errand.  Carpet  bag  and  slate 
proclaim  that  errand:  Rosy-Cheeks  and  Big-Eyes  are 
going  to  school. 

I  have  no  words  to  describe  the  pride  with  which  my 
sister  and  I  crossed  the  threshold  of  Isaiah  the  Scribe. 
Hitherto  we  had  been  to  heder,  to  a  rebbe;  now  we  were 
to  study  with  a  lehrer,  a  secular  teacher.  There  was  all 
the  difference  in  the  world  between  the  two.  The  one 
taught  you  Hebrew  only,  which  every  girl  learned;  the 
other  could  teach  Yiddish  and  Russian  and,  some  said, 
even  German;  and  how  to  write  a  letter,  and  how  to  do 
sums  without  a  counting-frame,  just  on  a  piece  of  paper; 
accomplishments  which  were  extremely  rare  among  girls 
in  Polotzk.  But  nothing  was  too  high  for  the  grandchild- 
ren of  Raphael  the  Russian;  they  had  "good  heads," 
everybody  knew.  So  we  were  sent  to  Reb'  Isaiah. 

My  first  school,  where  I  was  so  proud  to  be  received, 
was  a  hovel  on  the  edge  of  a  swamp.  The  schoolroom 
was  gray  within  and  without.  The  door  was  so  low  that 
Reb'  Isaiah  had  to  stoop  in  passing.  The  little  windows 
were  murky.  The  walls  were  bare,  but  the  low  ceiling 
was  decorated  with  bundles  of  goose  quills  stuck  in 
under  the  rafters.  A  rough  table  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  with  a  long  bench  on  either  side.  That  was 
the  schoolroom  complete.  In  my  eyes,  on  that  first 
morning,  it  shone  with  a  wonderful  light,  a  strange 
glory  that  penetrated  every  corner,  and  made  the 
stained  logs  fair  as  tinted  marble;  and  the  windows  were 
not  too  small  to  afford  me  a  view  of  a  large  new  world. 

Room  was  made  for  the  new  pupils  on  the  bench, 


118  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

beside  the  teacher.  We  found  our  inkwells,  which  were 
simply  hollows  scooped  out  in  the  thick  table  top.  Reb' 
Isaiah  made  us  very  serviceable  pens  by  tying  the  pen 
points  securely  to  little  twigs;  though  some  of  the  pupils 
used  quills.  The  teacher  also  ruled  our  paper  for  us, 
into  little  squares,  like  a  surveyor's  notebook.  Then  he 
set  us  a  copy,  and  we  copied,  one  letter  in  each  square, 
all  the  way  down  the  page.  All  the  little  girls  and  the 
middle-sized  girls  and  the  pretty  big  girls  copied  letters 
in  little  squares,  just  so.  There  were  so  few  of  us  that 
Reb'  Isaiah  could  see  everybody's  page  by  just  leaning 
over.  And  if  some  of  our  cramped  fingers  were  clumsy, 
and  did  not  form  the  loops  and  curves  accurately,  all  he 
had  to  do  was  to  stretch  out  his  hand  and  rap  with  his 
ruler  on  our  respective  knuckles.  It  was  all  very  cosey, 
with  the  inkwells  that  could  not  be  upset,  and  the  pens 
tha^t  grew  in  the  woods  or  strutted  in  the  dooryard,  and 
the  teacher  in  the  closest  touch  with  his  pupils,  as  I  have 
just  told.  And  as  he  labored  with  us,  and  the  hours 
drew  themselves  out,  he  was  comforted  by  the  smell 
of  his  dinner  cooking  in  some  little  hole  adjoining  the 
schoolroom,  and  by  the  sound  of  his  good  Leah  or 
Rachel  or  Deborah  (I  don't  remember  her  name)  keep- 
ing order  among  his  little  ones.  She  kept  very  good 
order,  too,  so  that  most  of  the  time  you  could  hear  the 
scratching  of  the  laborious  pens  accompanied  by  the 
croaking  of  the  frogs  in  the  swamp. 

Although  my  sister  and  I  began  our  studies  at  the 
same  time,  and  progressed  together,  my  parents  did  not 
want  me  to  take  up  new  subjects  as  fast  as  Fetchke  did. 
They  thought  my  health  too  delicate  for  much  study. 
So  when  Fetchke  had  her  Russian  lesson  I  was  told  to  go 
and  play.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  was  disobedient  on 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  119 

these  occasions,  as  on  many  others.  I  did  not  go  and 
play;  I  looked  on,  I  listened,  when  Fetchke  rehearsed 
her  lesson  at  home.  And  one  evening  I  stole  the  Russian 
primer  and  repaired  to  a  secret  place  I  knew  of.  It  was 
a  storeroom  for  broken  chairs  and  rusty  utensils  and 
dried  apples.  Nobody  would  look  for  me  in  that  dusty 
hole.  Nobody  did  look  there,  but  they  looked  every- 
where else,  in  the  house,  and  in  the  yard,  and  in  the 
barn,  and  down  the  street,  and  at  our  neighbors';  and 
while  everybody  was  searching  and  calling  for  me,  and 
telling  each  other  when  I  was  last  seen,  and  what  I  was 
then  doing,  I,  Mashke,  was  bending  over  the  stolen 
book,  rehearsing  A,  B,  C,  by  the  names  my  sister  had 
given  them;  and  before  anybody  hit  upon  my  retreat,  I 
could  spell  B-O-G,  Bog  (God)  and  K-A-Z-A,  Kaza 
(goat).  I  did  not  mind  in  the  least  being  caught,  for  I 
had  my  new  accomplishment  to  show  off. 

I  remember  the  littered  place,  and  the  high  chest  that 
served  as  my  table,  and  the  blue  glass  lamp  that  lighted 
my  secret  efforts.  I  remember  being  brought  from  there 
into  the  firelit  room  where  the  family  was  assembled, 
and  confusing  them  all  by  my  recital  of  the  simple 
words,  B-O-G,  Bog,  and  K-A-Z-A,  Kaza.  I  was  not 
reproached  for  going  into  hiding  at  bedtime,  and  the 
next  day  I  was  allowed  to  take  part  in  the  Russian 
lesson. 

Alas !  there  were  not  many  lessons  more.  Long  before 
we  had  exhausted  Reb'  Isaiah's  learning,  my  sister  and  I 
had  to  give  up  our  teacher,  because  the  family  fortunes 
began  to  decline,  and  luxuries,  such  as  schooling,  had  to 
be  cut  off.  Isaiah  the  Scribe  taught  us,  in  all,  perhaps 
two  terms,  in  which  time  we  learned  Yiddish  and  Rus- 
sian, and  a  little  arithmetic.  But  little  good  we  had  from 


120  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

our  ability  to  read,  for  there  were  no  books  in  our 
house  except  prayer-books  and  other  religious  writ- 
ings, mostly  in  Hebrew.  For  our  skill. in  writing  we  had 
as  little  use,  as  letter-writing  was  not  an  everyday  exer- 
cise, and  idle  writing  was  not  thought  of.  Our  good 
teacher,  however,  who  had  taken  pride  in  our  pro- 
gress, would  not  let  us  lose  all  that  we  had  learned  from 
him.  Books  he  could  not  lend  us,  because  he  had  none 
himself;  but  he  could,  and  he  did,  write  us  out  a  beauti- 
ful "copy"  apiece,  which  we  could  repeat  over  and  over, 
from  time  to  time,  and  so  keep  our  hands  in. 

I  wonder  that  I  have  forgotten  the  graceful  sentences 
of  my  "copy";  for  I  wrote  them  out  just  about  count- 
less times.  It  was  in  the  form  of  a  letter,  written  on 
lovely  pink  paper  (my  sister's  was  blue),  the  lines  taking 
the  shape  of  semicircles  across  the  page;  and  that  with- 
out any  guide  lines  showing.  The  script,  of  course,  was 
perfect  —  in  the  best  manner  of  Isaiah  the  Scribe  —  and 
the  sentiments  therein  expressed  were  entirely  noble.  I 
was  supposed  to  be  a  high-school  pupil  away  on  my 
vacation;  and  I  was  writing  to  my  "Respected  Parents," 
to  assure  them  of  my  welfare,  and  to  tell  them  how,  in 
the  midst  of  my  pleasures,  I  still  longed  for  my  friends, 
and  looked  forward  with  eagerness  to  the  renewal  of  my 
studies.  All  this,  in  phrases  half  Yiddish,  half  German, 
and  altogether  foreign  to  the  ears  of  Polotzk.  At  least,  I 
never  heard  such  talk  in  the  market,  when  I  went  to  buy 
a  kopeck's  worth  of  sunflower  seeds. 

This  was  all  the  schooling  I  had  in  Russia.  My 
father's  plans  fell  to  the  ground,  on  account  of  the 
protracted  illness  of  both  my  parents.  All  his  hopes  of 
leading  his  children  beyond  the  intellectual  limits  of 
Polotzk  were  trampled  down  by  the  monster  poverty 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  121 

who  showed  his  evil  visage  just  as  my  sister  and  I  were 
fairly  started  on  a  broader  path. 

One  chance  we  had,  and  that  was  quickly  snatched 
away,  of  continuing  our  education  in  spite  of  family 
difficulties.  Lozhe  the  Rav,  hearing  from  various 
sources  that  Pinchus,  son-in-law  of  Raphael  the  Russian, 
had  two  bright  little  girls,  whose  talents  were  going  to 
waste  for  want  of  training,  became  much  interested,  and 
sent  for  the  children,  to  see  for  himself  what  the  gossip 
was  worth.  By  a  strange  trick  of  memory  I  recall  no- 
thing of  this  important  interview,  nor  indeed  of  the 
whole  matter,  although  a  thousand  trifles  of  that  period 
recur  to  me  on  the  instant;  so  I  report  this  anecdote  on 
the  authority  of  my  parents. 

They  tell  me  how  the  rav  lifted  me  up  on  a  table  in 
front  of  him,  and  asked  me  many  questions,  and  en- 
couraged me  to  ask  questions  in  my  turn.  Reb'  Lozhe 
came  to  the  conclusion,  as  a  result  of  this  interview,  that 
I  ought  by  all  means  to  be  put  to  school.  There  was 
no  public  school  for  girls,  as  we  know,  but  a  few  pupils 
were  maintained  in  a  certain  private  school  by  irregular 
contributions  from  city  funds.  Reb'  Lozhe  enlisted  in 
my  cause  the  influence  of  his  son,  who,  by  virtue  of 
some  municipal  office  which  he  held,  had  a  vote  in  fixing 
this  appropriation.  But  although  he  pleaded  eloquently 
for  my  admission  as  a  city  pupil,  the  rav's  son  failed 
to  win  the  consent  of  his  colleagues,  and  my  one  little 
crack  of  opportunity  was  tightly  stopped. 

My  father  does  not  remember  on  what  technicality 
my  application  was  dismissed.  My  mother  is  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  plainly  refused  on  account  of  my 
religion,  the  authorities  being  unwilling  to  appropriate 
money  for  the  tuition  of  a  Jewish  child.   But  little  it 


122  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

matters  now  what  the  reason  was;  the  result  is  what 
affected  me.  I  was  left  without  teacher  or  book  just 
when  my  mind  was  most  active.  I  was  left  without  food 
just  when  the  hunger  of  growth  was  creeping  up.  I  was 
left  to  think  and  think,  without  direction;  without  the 
means  of  grappling  with  the  contents  of  my  own  thought. 

In  a  community  which  was  isolated  from  the  mass  of 
the  people  on  account  of  its  religion;  which  was  governed 
by  special  civil  laws  in  recognition  of  that  fact;  in  whose 
calendar  there  were  twoscore  days  of  religious  observ- 
ance; whose  going  and  coming,  giving  and  taking,  living 
and  dying,  to  the  minutest  details  of  social  conduct,  to 
the  most  intimate  particulars  of  private  life,  were  regu- 
lated by  sacred  laws,  there  could  be  no  question  of  per- 
sonal convictions  in  religion.  One  was  a  Jew,  leading  a 
righteous  life;  or  one  was  a  Gentile,  existing  to  harass 
the  Jews,  while  making  a  living  off  Jewish  enterprise. 
In  the  vocabulary  of  the  more  intelligent  part  of  Po- 
lotzk, it  is  true,  there  were  such  words  as  freethinker 
and  apostate;  but  these  were  the  names  of  men  who  had 
forsaken  the  Law  in  distant  times  or  in  distant  parts, 
and  whose  evil  fame  had  reached  Polotzk  by  the  cir- 
cuitous route  of  tradition.  Nobody  looked  for  such 
monsters  in  his  neighborhood.  Polotzk  was  safely 
divided  into  Jews  and  Gentiles. 

If  any  one  in  Polotzk  had  been  idle  and  curious 
enough  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  mind  of  a  little 
child,  I  wonder  if  his  findings  would  not  have  dis- 
turbed this  simple  classification. 

There  used  to  be  a  little  girl  in  Polotzk  who  recited 
the  long  Hebrew  prayers,  morning  and  evening,  before 
and  after  meals,  and  never  skipped  a  word;  who  kissed 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  123 

the  mezuzah  when  going  or  coming;  who  abstained  from 
food  and  drink  on  fast  days  when  she  was  no  bigger  than 
a  sacrificial  hen;  who  spent  Sabbath  mornings  over  the 
lengthy  ritual  for  the  day,  and  read  the  Psalms  till 
daylight  failed. 

This  pious  child  could  give  as  good  an  account  of  the 
Creation  as  any  boy  of  her  age.  She  knew  how  God 
made  the  world.  Undeterred  by  the  fate  of  Eve,  she 
wanted  to  know  more.  She  asked  her  wise  rebbe  how 
God  came  to  be  in  His  place,  and  where  He  found  the 
stuff  to  make  the  world  of,  and  what  was  doing  in  the 
universe  before  God  undertook  His  task.  Finding  from 
his  unsatisfying  replies  that  the  rebbe  was  but  a  barren 
branch  on  the  tree  of  knowledge,  the  good  little  girl 
never  betrayed  to  the  world,  by  look  or  word,  her  dis- 
covery of  his  limitations,  but  continued  to  accord  him, 
outwardly,  all  the  courtesy  due  to  his  calling. 

Her  teacher  having  failed  her,  the  young  student, 
with  admirable  persistence,  carried  her  questions  from 
one  to  another  of  her  acquaintances,  putting  their  an- 
swers to  the  test  whenever  it  was  possible.  She  estab- 
lished by  this  means  two  facts:  first,  that  she  knew 
as  much  as  any  of  those  who  undertook  to  instruct 
her;  second,  that  her  oracles  sometimes  gave  false 
answers.  Did  the  little  inquisitor  charge  her  betrayers 
with  the  lie?  Magnanimous  creature,  she  kept  their 
falseness  a  secret,  and  ceased  to  probe  their  shallow 
depths. 

What  you  would  know,  find  out  for  yourself:  this 
became  our  student's  motto;  and  she  passed  from 
the  question  to  the  experiment.  Her  grandmother  told 
her  that  if  she  handled  "blind  flowers"  she  would  be 
stricken  blind.  She  found  by  test  that  the  pretty  flowers 


124  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

were  harmless.  She  tested  everything  that  could  be 
tested,  till  she  hit  at  last  on  an  impious  plan  to  put  God 
Himself  to  the  proof. 

The  pious  little  girl  arose  one  Sabbath  afternoon  from 
her  religious  meditations,  when  all  the  house  was  tak- 
ing its  after-dinner  nap,  and  went  out  in  the  yard,  and 
stopped  at  the  gate.  She  took  out  her  pocket  handker- 
chief. She  looked  at  it.  Yes,  that  would  do  for  the  ex- 
periment. She  put  it  back  into  her  pocket.  She  did  not 
have  to  rehearse  mentally  the  sacred  admonition  not  to 
carry  anything  beyond  the  house-limits  on  the  Sabbath 
day.  She  knew  it  as  she  knew  that  she  was  alive.  And 
with  her  handkerchief  in  her  pocket  the  audacious  child 
stepped  into  the  street! 

She  stood  a  moment,  her  heart  beating  so  that  it 
pained.  Nothing  happened!  She  walked  quite  across 
the  street.  The  Sabbath  peace  still  lay  on  everything. 
She  felt  again  of  the  burden  in  her  pocket.  Yes,  she 
certainly  was  committing  a  sin.  With  an  access  of  im- 
pious boldness,  the  sinner  walked  —  she  ran  as  far  as 
the  corner,  and  stood  still,  fearfully  expectant.  What 
form  would  the  punishment  take?  She  stood  breathing 
painfully  for  an  eternity.  How  still  everything  was  — 
ho w  close  and  still  the  air !  Would  it  be  a  storm?  Would 
a  sudden  bolt  strike  her?  She  stood  and  waited.  She 
could  not  bring  her  hand  to  her  pocket  again,  but  she 
felt  that  it  bulged  monstrously.  She  stood  with  no 
thought  of  moving  again.  Where  were  the  thunders  of 
Jehovah?  No  sacred  word  of  all  her  long  prayers  came 
to  her  tongue  —  not  even  "Hear,  O  Israel."  She  felt 
that  she  was  in  direct  communication  with  God  — 
awful  thought !  —  and  He  would  read  her  mind  arid 
would  send  His  answer. 


THE  TREE  OF   KNOWLEDGE  125 

An  age  passed  in  blank  expectancy.  Nothing  hap- 
pened! Where  was  the  wrath  of  God?   Where  was  God? 

When  she  turned  to  go  home,  the  little  philosopher 
had  her  handkerchief  tied  around  her  wrist  in  the  proper 
way.  The  experiment  was  over,  though  the  result  was 
not  clear.  God  had  not  punished  her,  but  nothing  was 
proved  by  His  indifference.  Either  the  act  was  no  sin, 
and  her  preceptors  were  all  deceivers;  or  it  was  indeed 
a  sin  in  the  eyes  of  God,  but  He  refrained  from  stern 
justice  for  high  reasons  of  His  own.  It  was  not  a  search- 
ing experiment  she  had  made.  She  was  bitterly  disap- 
pointed, and  perhaps  that  was  meant  as  her  punish- 
ment: God  refused  to  give  her  a  reply.  She  intended  no 
sin  for  the  sake  of  sin;  so,  being  still  in  doubt,  she  tied 
her  handkerchief  around  her  wrist.  Her  eyes  stared 
more  than  ever,  —  this  was  the  child  with  the  staring 
eyes,  —  but  that  was  the  only  sign  she  gave  of  a  con- 
sciousness suddenly  expanded,  of  a  self-consciousness 
intensified. 

WThen  she  went  back  into  the  house,  she  gazed  with  a 
new  curiosity  at  her  mother,  at  her  grandmother,  dozing 
in  their  chairs.  They  looked  different.  When  they  awoke 
and  stretched  themselves  and  adjusted  wig  and  cap,  they 
looked  very  strange.  As  she  went  to  get  her  grandmother 
her  Bible,  and  dropped  it  accidentally,  she  kissed  it  by 
way  of  atonement  just  as  a  proper  child  should. 

How,  I  wonder,  would  this  Psalm-singing  child  have 
be  enlabelled  by  the  investigator  of  her  mind?  Would  he 
have  called  her  a  Jew?  She  was  too  young  to  be  called 
an  apostate.  Perhaps  she  would  have  been  dismissed  as 
a  little  fraud;  and  I  should  be  content  with  that  classi- 
fication, if  slightly  modified.  I  should  say  the  child  was 
a  piteously  puzzled  little  fraud. 


126  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

To  return  to  the  honest  first  person,  I  was  something 
of  a  fraud.  The  days  when  I  believed  everything  I  was 
told  did  not  run  much  beyond  my  teething  time.  I  soon 
began  to  question  if  fire  was  really  hot,  if  the  cat  would 
really  scratch.  Presently,  as  we  have  seen,  I  questioned 
God.  And  in  those  days  my  religion  depended  on  my 
mood.  I  could  believe  anything  I  wanted  to  believe.  I 
did  believe,  in  all  my  moods,  that  there  was  a  God  who 
had  made  the  world,  in  some  fashion  unexplained,  and 
who  knew  about  me  and  my  doings;  for  there  was  the 
world  all  about  me,  and  somebody  must  have  made  it. 
And  it  was  conceivable  that  a  being  powerful  enough  to 
do  such  work  could  be  aware  of  my  actions  at  all  times, 
and  yet  continue  to  me  invisible.  The  question  re- 
mained, what  did  He  think  of  my  conduct?  Was  He 
really  angry  when  I  broke  the  Sabbath,  or  pleased  when 
I  fasted  on  the  Day  of  Atonement?  My  belief  as  to  these 
matters  wavered.  When  I  swung  the  sacrifice  around 
my  head  on  Atonement  Eve,  repeating,  "Be  thou  my 
sacrifice,"  etc.,  I  certainly  believed  that  I  was  bargain- 
ing with  the  Almighty  for  pardon,  and  that  He  was 
interested  in  the  matter.  But  next  day,  when  the  fast 
was  over,  and  I  enjoyed  all  of  my  chicken  that  I  could 
eat,  I  believed  as  certainly  that  God  could  not  be  party 
to  such  a  foolish  transaction,  in  which  He  got  nothing 
but  words,  while  I  got  both  the  feast  and  the  pardon. 
The  sacrifice  of  money,  to  be  spent  for  the  poor,  seemed 
to  me  a  more  reliable  insurance  against  damnation.  The 
well-to-do  pious  offered  up  both  living  sacrifice  and 
money  for  the  poor-box,  but  it  was  a  sign  of  poverty  to 
offer  only  money.  Even  a  lean  rooster,  to  be  killed, 
roasted,  and  garnished  for  the  devotee's  own  table  at 
the  breaking  of  the  fast,  seemed  to  be  considered  a  more 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  127 

respectable  sacrifice  than  a  groschen  to  increase  the 
charity  fund.  All  this  was  so  illogical  that  it  unsettled 
my  faith  in  minor  points  of  doctrine,  and  on  these 
points  I  was  quite  happy  to  believe  to-day  one  thing, 
to-morrow  another. 

As  unwaveringly  as  I  believed  that  we  Jews  had  a  God 
who  was  powerful  and  wise,  I  believed  that  the  God  of 
my  Christian  neighbors  was  impotent,  cruel,  and  foolish. 
I  understood  that  the  god  of  the  Gentiles  was  no  better 
than  a  toy,  to  be  dressed  up  in  gaudy  stuffs  and  carried 
in  processions.  I  saw  it  often  enough,  and  turned  away 
in  contempt.  While  the  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and 
Jacob  —  my  God  —  enjoined  on  me  honesty  and  kind- 
ness, the  god  of  Vanka  bade  him  beat  me  and  spit  on  me 
whenever  he  caught  me  alone.  And  what  a  foolish  god 
was  that  who  taught  the  stupid  Gentiles  that  we  drank 
the  blood  of  a  murdered  child  at  our  Passover  feast! 
Wliy,  I,  who  was  only  a  child,  knew  better.  And  so  I 
hated  and  feared  and  avoided  the  great  white  church  in 
the  Platz,  and  hated  every  sign  and  symbol  of  that 
monstrous  god  who  was  kept  there,  and  hated  my 
own  person,  when,  in  our  play  of  a  Christian  funeral,  I 
imagined  my  body  to  be  the  corpse,  over  which  was 
carried  the  hideous  cross. 

Perhaps  I  have  established  that  I  was  more  Jew  than 
Gentile,  though  I  can  still  prove  that  I  was  none  the  less 
a  fraud.  For  instance,  I  remember  how  once,  on  the  eve 
of  the  Ninth  of  Ab  —  the  anniversary  of  the  fall  of  the 
Temple  —  I  was  looking  on  at  the  lamentations  of  the 
women.  A  large  circle  had  gathered  around  my  mother, 
who  was  the  only  good  reader  among  them,  to  listen  to 
the  story  of  the  cruel  destruction.  Sitting  on  humble 
stools,  in  stocking  feet,  shabby  clothes,  and  dishevelled 


128  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

hair,  weeping  in  chorus,  and  wringing  their  hands,  as  if 
it  was  but  yesterday  that  the  sacred  edifice  fell  and  they 
were  in  the  very  dust  and  ashes  of  the  ruin,  the  women 
looked  to  me  enviously  wretched  and  pious.  I  joined  the 
circle  in  the  candlelight.  I  wrung  my  hands,  I  moaned; 
but  I  was  always  slow  of  tears  —  I  could  not  weep.  But 
I  wanted  to  look  like  the  others.  So  I  streaked  my 
cheeks  with  the  only  moisture  at  hand. 

Alas  for  my  pious  ambition !  alas  for  the  noble  lament 
of  the  women!  Somebody  looked  up  and  caught  me 
in  the  act  of  manufacturing  tears.  I  grinned,  and  she 
giggled.  Another  woman  looked  up.  I  grinned,  and 
they  giggled.  Demoralization  swept  around  the  circle. 
Honest  laughter  snuffed  out  artificial  grief.  My  mother 
at  last  looked  up,  with  red  and  astonished  eyes,  and  I 
was  banished  from  the  feast  of  tears. 

I  returned  promptly  to  my  playmates  in  the  street, 
who  were  amusing  themselves,  according  to  the  custom 
on  that  sad  anniversary,  by  pelting  each  other  with 
burrs.  Here  I  was  distinguished,  more  than  I  had  been 
among  my  elders.  My  hair  being  curly,  it  caught  a 
generous  number  of  burrs,  so  that  I  fairly  bristled  with 
these  emblems  of  mortification  and  woe. 

Not  long  after  that  sinful  experiment  with  the  hand- 
kerchief I  discovered  by  accident  that  I  was  not  the  only 
doubter  in  Polotzk.  One  Friday  night  I  lay  wakeful  in 
my  little  bed,  staring  from  the  dark  into  the  lighted 
room  adjoining  mine.  I  saw  the  Sabbath  candles  sputter 
and  go  out,  one  by  one,  —  it  was  late,  —  but  the  lamp 
hanging  from  the  ceiling  still  burned  high.  Everybody 
had  gone  to  bed.  The  lamp  would  go  out  before  morning 
if  there  was  little  oil;  or  else  it  would  burn  till  Natasha, 
the  Gentile  chorewoman,  came  in  the  morning  to  put  it 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  129 

out,  and  remove  the  candlesticks  from  the  table,  and 
unseal  the  oven,  and  do  the  dozen  little  tasks  which  no 
Jew  could  perform  on  the  Sabbath.  The  simple  pro- 
hibition to  labor  on  the  Sabbath  day  had  been  con- 
strued by  zealous  commentators  to  mean  much  more. 
One  must  not  even  touch  any  instrument  of  labor  or 
commerce,  as  an  axe  or  a  coin.  It  was  forbidden  to  light 
a  fire,  or  to  touch  anything  that  contained  a  fire,  or 
had  contained  fire,  were  it  only  a  cold  candlestick  or  a 
burned  match.  Therefore  the  lamp  at  which  I  was  star- 
ing must  burn  till  the  Gentile  woman  came  to  put  it  out. 

The  light  did  not  annoy  me  in  the  least;  I  was  not 
thinking  about  it.  But  apparently  it  troubled  somebody 
else.  I  saw  my  father  come  from  his  room,  which  also 
adjoined  the  living-room.  What  was  he  going  to  do? 
What  was  this  he  was  doing?  Could  I  believe  my  eyes? 
My  father  touched  the  lighted  lamp !  —  yes,  he  shook  it, 
as  if  to  see  how  much  oil  there  was  left. 

I  was  petrified  in  my  place.  I  could  neither  move  nor 
make  a  sound.  It  seemed  to  me  he  must  feel  my  eyes 
bulging  at  him  out  of  the  dark.  But  he  did  not  know 
that  I  was  looking;  he  thought  everybody  was  asleep. 
He  turned  down  the  light  a  very  little,  and  waited.  I 
did  not  take  my  eyes  from  him.  He  lowered  the  flame  a 
little  more,  and  waited  again.  I  watched.  By  the  slight- 
est degrees  he  turned  the  light  down.  I  understood.  In 
case  any  one  were  awake,  it  would  appear  as  if  the  lamp 
was  going  out  of  itself.  I  was  the  only  one  who  lay  so  as 
to  be  able  to  see  him,  and  I  had  gone  to  bed  so  early  that 
he  could  not  suppose  I  was  awake.  The  light  annoyed 
him,  he  wanted  to  put  it  out,  but  he  would  not  risk 
having  it  known. 

I  heard  my  father  find  his  bed  in  the  dark  before  I 


130  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

dared  to  draw  a  full  breath.  The  thing  he  had  done  was 
a  monstrous  sin.  If  his  mother  had  seen  him  do  it,  it 
would  have  broken  her  heart  —  his  mother  who  fasted 
half  the  days  of  the  year,  when  he  was  a  boy,  to  save  his 
teacher's  fee;  his  mother  who  walked  almost  barefoot  in 
the  cruel  snow  to  carry  him  on  her  shoulders  to  school 
when  she  had  no  shoes  for  him;  his  mother  who  made  it 
her  pious  pride  to  raise  up  a  learned  son,  that  most 
precious  offering  in  the  eyes  of  the  great  God,  from  the 
hand  of  a  poor  struggling  woman.  If  my  mother  had 
seen  it,  it  would  have  grieved  her  no  less  —  my  mother 
who  was  given  to  him,  with  her  youth  and  good  name 
and  her  dowry,  in  exchange  for  his  learning  and  piety; 
my  mother  who  was  taken  from  her  play  to  bear  him 
children  and  feed  them  and  keep  them,  while  he  sat  on 
the  benches  of  the  scholars  and  repaid  her  labors  with 
the  fame  of  his  learning.  I  did  not  put  it  to  myself  just 
so,  but  I  understood  that  learning  and  piety  were  the 
things  most  valued  in  our  family,  that  my  father  was  a 
scholar,  and  that  piety,  of  course,  was  the  fruit  of  sacred 
learning.  And  yet  my  father  had  deliberately  violated 
the  Sabbath. 

His  act  was  not  to  be  compared  with  my  carrying  the 
handkerchief.  The  two  sins  were  of  the  same  kind,  but 
the  sinners  and  their  motives  were  different.  I  was  a 
child,  a  girl  at  that,  not  yet  of  the  age  of  moral  respons- 
ibility. He  was  a  man  full  grown,  passing  for  one  of 
God's  elect,  and  accepting  the  reverence  of  the  world  as 
due  tribute  to  his  scholarly  merits.  I  had  by  no  means 
satisfied  myself,  by  my  secret  experiment,  that  it  was 
not  sinful  to  carry  a  burden  on  the  Sabbath  day.  If  God 
did  not  punish  me  on  the  spot,  perhaps  it  was  because 
of  my  youth  or  perhaps  it  was  because  of  my  motive. 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  131 

According  to  my  elders,  my  father,  by  turning  out  the 
lamp,  committed  the  sin  of  Sabbath-breaking.  What 
did  my  father  intend?  I  could  not  suppose  that  his 
purpose  was  similar  to  mine.  Surely  he,  who  had  lived 
so  long  and  studied  so  deeply,  had  by  this  time  resolved 
all  his  doubts.  Surely  God  had  instructed  him.  I  could 
not  believe  that  he  did  wrong  knowingly,  so  I  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  did  not  hold  it  a  sin  to  touch  a 
lighted  lamp  on  Sabbath.  Then  why  was  he  so  secret  in 
his  action?  That,  too,  became  clear  to  me.  I  myself  had 
instinctively  adopted  secret  methods  in  all  .my  little 
investigations,  and  had  kept  the  results  to  myself.  The 
way  in  which  my  questions  were  received  had  taught 
me  much.  I  had  a  dim,  inarticulate  understanding 
of  the  horror  and  indignation  which  my  father  would 
excite  if  he,  supposedly  a  man  of  piety,  should  publish 
the  heretical  opinion  that  it  was  not  wrong  to  handle 
fire  on  the  Sabbath.  To  see  what  remorse  my  mother 
suffered,  or  my  father's  mother,  if  by  some  accident  she 
failed  in  any  point  of  religious  observance,  was  to  know 
that  she  could  never  be  brought  to  doubt  the  sacred 
importance  of  the  thousand  minutise  of  ancient  Jewish 
practice.  That  which  had  been  taught  them  as  the 
truth  by  their  fathers  and  mothers  was  the  whole  truth 
to  my  good  friends  and  neighbors  —  that  and  nothing 
else.  If  there  were  any  people  in  Polotzk  who  had 
strange  private  opinions,  such  as  I  concluded  my  father 
must  hold,  it  was  possible  that  he  had  a  secret  acquaint- 
ance with  them.  But  it  would  never  do,  it  was  plain  to 
me,  to  make  public  confession  of  his  convictions.  Such 
an  act  would  not  only  break  the  hearts  of  his  family, 
but  it  would  also  take  the  bread  from  the  mouths  of 
his  children,  and  ruin  them  forever.  My  sister  and  my 


132  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

brother  and  I  would  come  to  be  called  the  children  of 
Israel  the  Apostate,  just  as  Gutke,  my  playmate,  was 
called  the  granddaughter  of  Yankel  the  Informer.  The 
most  innocent  of  us  would  be  cursed  and  shunned  for  the 
sin  of  our  father. 

All  this  I  came  to  understand,  not  all  at  once,  but  by 
degrees,  as  I  put  this  and  that  together,  and  brought  my 
childish  thoughts  to  order.  I  was  by  no  means  absorbed 
in  this  problem.  I  played  and  danced  with  the  other 
children  as  heartily  as  ever,  but  I  brooded  in  my  window 
corner  when  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  I  had  not  the 
slightest  impulse  to  go  to  my  father,  charge  him  with 
his  unorthodox  conduct,  and  demand  an  explanation  of 
him.  I  was  quite  satisfied  that  I  understood  him,  and 
I  had  not  the  habit  of  confidences.  I  was  still  in  the  days 
when  I  was  content  to  find  out  things,  and  did  not  long 
to  communicate  my  discoveries.  Moreover,  I  was  used 
to  living  in  two  worlds,  a  real  world  and  a  make-believe 
one,  without  ever  knowing  which  was  which.  In  one 
world  I  had  much  company  —  father  and  mother  and 
sister  and  friends  —  and  did  as  others  did,  and  took 
everything  for  granted.  In  the  other  world  I  was  all 
alone,  and  I  had  to  discover  ways  for  myself;  and  I  was 
so  uncertain  that  I  did  not  attempt  to  bring  a  compan- 
ion along.  And  did  I  find  my  own  father  treading  in  the 
unknown  ways?  Then  perhaps  some  day  he  would  come 
across  me,  and  take  me  farther  than  I  had  yet  been;  but 
I  would  not  be  the  first  to  whisper  that  I  was  there.  It 
seems  strange  enough  to  me  now  that  I  should  have 
been  so  uncommunicative;  but  I  remind  myself  that  I 
have  been  thoroughly  made  over,  at  least  once,  since 
those  early  days. 

I  recall  with  sorrow  that  I  was  sometimes  as  weak  in 


THE  TREE  OF  KNOWLEDGE  133 

morals  as  I  was  in  religion.  I  remember  stealing  a  piece 
of  sugar.  It  was  long  ago  —  almost  as  long  ago  as  any- 
thing that  I  remember.  We  were  still  living  in  my 
grandfather's  house  when  this  dreadful  thing  happened, 
and  I  was  only  four  or  five  years  old  when  we  moved 
from  there.  Before  my  mother  figured  this  out  for  me 
I  scarcely  had  the  courage  to  confess  my  sin. 

And  it  was  thus:  In  a  corner  of  a  front  room,  by  a 
window,  stood  a  high  chest  of  drawers.  On  top  of  the 
chest  stood  a  tin  box,  decorated  with  figures  of  queer 
people  with  queer  flat  parasols;  a  Chinese  tea-box,  in  a 
word.  The  box  had  a  lid.  The  lid  was  shut  tight.  But  I 
knew  what  was  in  that  gorgeous  box,  and  I  coveted  it. 
I  was  very  little  —  I  never  could  reach  anything.  There 
stood  a  chair  suggestively  near  the  chest.  I  pushed  the 
chair  a  little  and  mounted  it.  By  standing  on  tiptoe  I 
could  now  reach  the  box.  I  opened  it  and  took  out  an 
irregular  lump  of  sparkling  sugar.  I  stood  on  the  chair 
admiring  it.  I  stood  too  long.  My  grandmother  came 
in  —  or  was  it  Itke,  the  housemaid?  —  and  found  me 
with  the  stolen  morsel. 

I  saw  that  I  was  fairly  caught.  How  could  I  hope  to 
escape  my  captor,  when  I  was  obliged  to  turn  on  my 
stomach  in  order  to  descend  safely,  thus  presenting  my 
jailer  with  the  most  tempting  opportunity  for  immedi- 
ate chastisement?  I  took  in  the  situation  before  my 
grandmother  had  found  her  voice  for  horror.  Did  I  rub 
my  eyes  with  my  knuckles  and  whimper?  I  wish  I  could 
report  that  I  was  thus  instantly  struck  with  a  sense  of 
my  guilt.  I  was  impressed  only  with  the  absolute  cer- 
tainty of  my  impending  doom,  and  I  promptly  seized 
on  a  measure  of  compensation.  While  my  captor  — 
I  really  think  it  was  a  grandmother  —  rehearsed  her 


134  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

entire  vocabulary  of  reproach,  from  a  distance  sufficient 
to  enable  her  to  hurl  her  voice  at  me  with  the  best  effect, 
I  stuffed  the  lump  of  sugar  into  my  mouth  and  munched 
it  as  fast  as  I  could.  And  I  had  eaten  it  all,  and  had 
licked  my  sticky  lips,  before  the  avenging  rod  came 
down. 

I  remember  no  similar  lapses  from  righteousness^  but 
I  sinned  in  lesser  ways  more  times  than  there  are  years  in 
my  life.  I  sinned,  and  more  than  once  I  escaped  punish- 
ment by  some  trick  or  sly  speech.  I  do  not  mean  that  I 
lied  outright,  though  that  also  I  did,  sometimes;  but  I 
would  twist  my  naughty  speech,  if  forced  to  repeat  it, 
in  such  an  artful  manner,  or  give  such  ludicrous  explan- 
ation of  my  naughty  act,  that  justice  was  overcome  by 
laughter  and  threw  me,  as  often  as  not,  a  handful  of 
raisins  instead  of  a  knotted  strap.  If  by  such  successes 
I  was  encouraged  to  cultivate  my  natural  slyness  and 
duplicity,  I  throw  the  blame  on  my  unwise  preceptors, 
and  am  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  burden  for  once. 

I  have  said  that  I  used  to  lie.  I  recall  no  particular 
occasion  when  a  lie  was  the  cause  of  my  disgrace;  but  I 
know  that  it  was  always  my  habit,  when  I  had  some 
trifling  adventure  to  report,  to  garnish  it  up  with  so 
much  detail  and  circumstance  that  nobody  who  had 
witnessed  my  small  affair  could  have  recognized  it  as  the 
same,  had  I  not  insisted  on  my  version  with  such  fervid 
conviction.  The  truth  is  that  everything  that  happened 
to  me  really  loomed  great  and  shone  splendid  in  my  eyes, 
and  I  could  not,  except  by  conscious  effort,  reduce  my 
visions  to  their  actual  shapes  and  colors.  If  I  saw  a 
pair  of  geese  leading  about  a  lazy  goose  girl,  they  went 
through  all  sorts  of  antics  before  my  eyes  that  fat 
geese  are  not  known  to  indulge  in.   If  I  met  poor 


THE  TREE  OF   KNOWLEDGE  135 

Blind  Munye  with  a  frown  on  his  face,  I  thought  that 
a  cloud  of  wrath  overspread  his  countenance;  and  I 
ran  home  to  relate,  panting,  how  narrowly  I  had  es- 
caped his  fury.  I  will  not  pretend  that  I  was  absolutely 
unconscious  of  my  exaggerations;  but  if  you  insist,  I 
will  say  that  things  as  I  reported  them  might  have 
been  so,  and  would  have  been  much  more  interesting 
had  they  been  so. 

The  noble  reader  who  never  told  a  lie,  or  never  con- 
fessed one,  will  be  shocked  at  these  revelations  of  my 
childish  depravity.  What  proof  has  he,  he  will  cry,  that 
I  am  not  lying  on  every  page  of  this  chronicle,  if,  by  my 
own  confession,  my  childhood  was  spent  in  a  maze  of 
lies  and  dreams?  I  shall  say  to  the  saint,  when  I  am 
challenged,  that  the  proof  of  my  conversion  to  veracity 
is  engraven  in  his  own  soul.  Do  you  not  remember,  you 
spotless  one,  how  you  used  to  steal  and  lie  and  cheat  and 
rob?  Oh,  not  with  your  own  hand,  of  course!  It  was 
your  remote  ancestor  who  lived  by  plunder,  and  was 
honored  for  the  blood  upon  his  hairy  hands.  By  and 
by  he  discovered  that  cunning  was  more  effective  than 
violence,  and  less  troublesome.  Still  later  he  became 
convinced  that  the  greatest  cunning  was  virtue,  and 
made  him  a  moral  code,  and  subdued  the  world.  Then, 
when  you  came  along,  stumbling  through  the  wilderness 
of  cast-off  errors,  your  wise  ancestor  gave  you  a  thrust 
that  landed  you  in  the  clearing  of  modernity,  at  the 
same  time  bellowing  in  your  ear,  "Now  be  good!  It 
pays!" 

This  is  the  whole  history  of  your  saintliness.  But  all 
people  do  not  take  up  life  at  the  same  point  of  human 
development.  Some  are  backward  at  birth,  and  have  to 
make  up,  in  the  brief  space  of  their  individual  history, 


f 


136  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

the  stages  they  missed  on  their  way  out  of  the  black 
past.  With  me,  for  example,  it  actually  comes  to  this: 
that  I  have  to  recapitulate  in  my  own  experience  all  the 
slow  steps  of  the  progress  of  the  race.  I  seem  to  learn 
nothing  except  by  the  prick  of  life  on  my  own  skin.  I 
am  saved  from  living  in  ignorance  and  dying  in  darkness 
only  by  the  sensitiveness  of  my  skin.  Some  men  learn 
through  borrowed  experience.  Shut  them  up  in  a  glass 
tower,  with  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  world,  and  they 
will  go  through  every  adventure  of  life  by  proxy,  and  be 
able  to  furnish  you  with  a  complete  philosophy  of  life; 
and  you  may  safely  bring  up  your  children  by  it.  But  I 
am  not  of  that  godlike  organization.  I  am  a  thinking 
animal.  Things  are  as  important  to  me  as  ideas.  I 
imbibe  wisdom  through  every  pore  of  my  body.  There 
are  times,  indeed,  when  the  doctor  in  his  study  is  less 
intelligible  to  me  than  a  cricket  far  off  in  the  field.  The 
earth  was  my  mother,  the  earth  is  my  teacher.  I  am  a 
dutiful  pupil :  I  listen  ever  with  my  ear  close  to  her  lips. 
It  seems  to  me  I  do  not  know  a  single  thing  that  I  did 
not  learn,  more  or  less  directly,  through  the  corporal 
senses.  As  long  as  I  have  my  body,  I  need  not  despair 
of  salvation. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   BOUNDARIES   STRETCH 

The  long  chapter  of  troubles  which  led  to  my  father's 
emigration  to  America  began  with  his  own  illness.  The 
doctors  sent  him  to  Courland  to  consult  expensive  spe- 
cialists, who  prescribed  tedious  courses  of  treatment.  He 
was  far  from  cured  when  my  mother  also  fell  ill,  and  my 
father  had  to  return  to  Polotzk  to  look  after  the  business. 

Trouble  begets  trouble.  After  my  mother  took  to  her 
bed  everything  continued  to  go  wrong.  The  business 
gradually  declined,  as  too  much  money  was  withdrawn 
to  pay  the  doctors'  and  apothecaries'  bills;  and  my 
father,  himself  in  poor  health,  and  worried  about  my 
mother,  was  not  successful  in  coping  with  the  growing 
difficulties.  At  home,  the  servants  were  dismissed,  for 
the  sake  of  economy,  and  all  the  housework  and  the 
nursing  fell  on  my  grandmother  and  my  sister.  Fetchke, 
as  a  result,  was  overworked,  and  fell  ill  of  a  fever.  The 
baby,  suffering  from  unavoidable  neglect,  developed 
the  fractious  temper  of  semi-illness.  And  by  way  of 
a  climax,  the  old  cow  took  it  into  her  head  to  kick 
my  grandmother,  who  was  laid  up  for  a  week  with  a 
bruised  leg. 

Neighbors  and  cousins  pulled  us  through  till  grandma 
got  up,  and  after  her,  Fetchke.  But  my  mother  re- 
mained on  her  bed.  Weeks,  months,  a  year  she  lay 
there,  and  half  of  another  year.  All  the  doctors  in 
Polotzk  attended  her  in  turn,  and  one  doctor  came  all 
the  way  from  Vitebsk.   Every  country  practitioner  for 


138  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

miles  around  was  consulted,  every  quack,  every  old 
wife  who  knew  a  charm.  The  apothecaries  ransacked 
their  shops  for  drugs  the  names  of  which  they  had  for- 
gotten, and  kind  neighbors  brought  in  their  favorite 
remedies.  There  were  midnight  prayers  in  the  syna- 
gogue for  my  mother,  and  petitions  at  the  graves  of  her 
parents;  and  one  awful  night  when  she  was  near  death, 
three  pious  mothers  who  had  never  lost  a  child  came  to 
my  mother's  bedside  and  bought  her,  for  a  few  kopecks, 
for  their  own,  so  that  she  might  gain  the  protection  of 
their  luck,  and  so  be  saved. 

Still  my  poor  mother  lay  on  her  bed,  suffering  and 
wasting.  The  house  assumed  a  look  of  desolation. 
Everybody  went  on  tiptoe;  we  talked  in  whispers;  for 
weeks  at  a  time  there  was  no  laughter  in  our  home.  The 
ominous  night  lamp  was  never  extinguished.  We  slept 
in  our  clothes  night  after  night,  so  as  to  wake  the  more 
easily  in  case  of  sudden  need.  We  watched,  we  waited, 
but  we  scarcely  hoped. 

Once  in  a  while  I  was  allowed  to  take  a  short  turn  in 
the  sick-room.  It  was  awful  to  sit  beside  my  mother's 
bed  in  the  still  night  and  see  her  helplessness.  She  had 
been  so  strong,  so  active.  She  used  to  lift  sacks  and 
barrels  that  were  heavy  for  a  man,  and  now  she  could  not 
raise  a  spoon  to  her  mouth.  Sometimes  she  did  not  know 
me  when  I  gave  her  the  medicine,  and  when  she  knew 
me,  she  did  not  care.  Would  she  ever  care  any  more? 
She  looked  strange  and  small  in  the  shadows  of  the  bed. 
Her  hair  had  been  cut  off  after  the  first  few  months;  her 
short  curls  were  almost  covered  by  the  ice  bag.  Her 
cheeks  were  red,  red,  but  her  hands  were  so  white  as 
they  had  never  been  before.  In  the  still  night  I  won- 
dered if  she  cared  to  live. 


THE  BOUNDARIES   STRETCH  139 

The  night  lamp  burned  on.  My  father  grew  old.  He 
was  always  figuring  on  a  piece  of  paper.  We  children 
knew  the  till  was  empty  when  the  silver  candlesticks 
were  taken  away  to  be  pawned.  Next,  superfluous 
featherbeds  were  sold  for  what  they  would  bring,  and 
then  there  came  a  day  when  grandma,  with  eyes  blinded 
by  tears,  groped  in  the  big  wardrobe  for  my  mother's 
satin  dress  and  velvet  mantle;  and  after  that  it  did  not 
matter  any  more  what  was  taken  out  of  the  house. 

Then  everything  took  a  sudden  turn.  My  mother 
began  to  improve,  and  at  the  same  time  my  father  was 
offered  a  good  position  as  superintendent  of  a  gristmill. 

As  soon  as  my  mother  could  be  moved,  he  took  us 
all  out  to  the  mill,  about  three  versts  out  of  town,  on 
the  Polota.  We  had  a  pleasant  cottage  there,  with  the 
miller's  red-headed,  freckled  family  for  our  only  neigh- 
bors. If  our  rooms  were  barer  than  they  used  to  be,  the 
sun  shone  in  at  all  the  windows;  and  as  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  grew  denser  and  darker,  my  mother  grew  stronger 
on  her  feet,  and  laughter  returned  to  our  house  as  the 
song  bird  to  the  grove. 

We  children  had  a  very  happy  summer.  We  had  never 
lived  in  the  country  before,  and  we  liked  the  change.  It 
was  endless  fun  to  explore  the  mill;  to  squeeze  into 
forbidden  places,  and  be  pulled  out  by  the  angry  miller; 
to  tyrannize  over  the  mill  hands,  and  be  worshipped  by 
them  in  return;  to  go  boating  on  the  river,  and  dis- 
cover unvisited  nooks,  and  search  the  woods  and  fields 
for  kitchen  herbs,  and  get  lost,  and  be  found,  a  hundred 
times  a  week.  And  what  an  adventure  it  was  to  walk  the 
three  versts  into  town,  leaving  a  trail  of  perfume  from 
the  wild-flower  posies  we  carried  to  our  city  friends! 

But  these  things  did  not  last.    The  mill  changed 


140  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

hands,  and  the  new  owner  put  a  protege  of  his  own  in 
my  father's  place.  So,  after  a  short  breathing  spell,  we 
were  driven  back  into  the  swamp  of  growing  poverty 
and  trouble. 

The  next  year  or  so  my  father  spent  in  a  restless  and 
fruitless  search  for  a  permanent  position.  My  mother 
had  another  serious  illness,  and  his  own  health  re- 
mained precarious.  What  he  earned  did  not  more  than 
half  pay  the  bills  in  the  end,  though  we  were  living 
very  humbly  now.  Polotzk  seemed  to  reject  him,  and 
no  other  place  invited  him. 

Just  at  this  time  occurred  one  of  the  periodic  anti- 
Semitic  movements  whereby  government  officials  were 
wont  to  clear  the  forbidden  cities  of  Jews,  whom,  in  the 
intervals  of  slack  administration  of  the  law,  they  allowed 
to  maintain  an  illegal  residence  in  places  outside  the 
Pale,  on  payment  of  enormous  bribes  and  at  the  cost  of 
nameless  risks  and  indignities. 

It  was  a  little  before  Passover  that  the  cry  of  the 
hunted  thrilled  the  Jewish  world  with  the  familiar  fear. 
The  wholesale  expulsion  of  Jews  from  Moscow  and  its 
surrounding  district  at  cruelly  short  notice  was  the 
name  of  this  latest  disaster.  Where  would  the  doom 
strike  next?  The  Jews  who  lived  illegally  without  the 
Pale  turned  their  possessions  into  cash  and  slept  in  their 
clothes,  ready  for  immediate  flight.  Those  who  lived  in 
the  comparative  security  of  the  Pale  trembled  for  their 
brothers  and  sisters  without,  and  opened  wide  their 
doors  to  afford  the  fugitives  refuge.  And  hundreds  of 
fugitives,  preceded  by  a  wail  of  distress,  flocked  into  the 
open  district,  bringing  their  trouble  where  trouble  was 
never  absent,  mingling  their  tears  with  the  tears  that 
never  dried. 


THE  BOUNDARIES   STRETCH  141 

The  open  cities  becoming  thus  suddenly  crowded, 
every  man's  chance  of  making  a  living  was  diminished 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  additional  competitors. 
Hardship,  acute  distress,  ruin  for  many:  thus  spread 
the  disaster,  ring  beyond  ring,  from  the  stone  thrown 
by  a  despotic  official  into  the  ever-full  river  of  Jewish 
persecution. 

Passover  was  celebrated  in  tears  that  year.  In  the 
story  of  the  Exodus  we  would  have  read  a  chapter  of 
current  history,  only  for  us  there  was  no  deliverer  and 
no  promised  land. 

But  what  said  some  of  us  at  the  end  of  the  long 
service?  Not  "May  we  be  next  year  in  Jerusalem," 
but  "Next  year  —  in  America!"  So  there  was  our 
promised  land,  and  many  faces  were  turned  towards 
the  West.  And  if  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic  did  not 
part  for  them,  the  wanderers  rode  its  bitter  flood  by 
a  miracle  as  great  as  any  the  rod  of  Moses  ever 
wrought. 

My  father  was  carried  away  by  the  westward  move- 
ment, glad  of  his  own  deliverance,  but  sore  at  heart 
for  us  whom  he  left  behind.  It  was  the  last  chance  for 
all  of  us.  We  were  so  far  reduced  in  circumstances 
that  he  had  to  travel  with  borrowed  money  to  a  German 
port,  whence  he  was  forwarded  to  Boston,  with  a  host 
of  others,  at  the  expense  of  an  emigrant  aid  society. 

I  was  about  ten  years  old  when  my  father  emigrated. 
I  was  used  to  his  going  away  from  home,  and  "America" 
did  not  mean  much  more  to  me  than  "Kherson,"  or 
"Odessa,"  or  any  other  names  of  distant  places.  I 
understood  vaguely,  from  the  gravity  with  which  his 
plans  were  discussed,  and  from  references  to  ships, 
societies,  and  other  unfamiliar  things,  that  this  enter- 


142  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

prise  was  different  from  previous  ones;  but  my  excite- 
ment and  emotion  on  the  morning  of  my  father's  de- 
parture were  mainly  vicarious. 

I  know  the  day  when  "America"  as  a  world  entirely 
unlike  Polotzk  lodged  in  my  brain,  to  become  the  centre 
of  all  my  dreams  and  speculations.  Well  I  know  the  day. 
I  was  in  bed,  sharing  the  measles  with  some  of  the  other 
children.  Mother  brought  us  a  thick  letter  from  father, 
written  just  before  boarding  the  ship.  The  letter  was 
full  of  excitement.  There  was  something  in  it  besides 
the  description  of  travel,  something  besides  the  pictures 
of  crowds  of  people,  of  foreign  cities,  of  a  ship  ready  to 
put  out  to  sea.  My  father  was  travelling  at  the  expense 
of  a  charitable  organization,  without  means  of  his  own, 
without  plans,  to  a  strange  world  where  he  had  no 
friends;  and  yet  he  wrote  with  the  confidence  of  a  well- 
equipped  soldier  going  into  battle.  The  rhetoric  is  mine. 
Father  simply  wrote  that  the  emigration  committee 
was  taking  good  care  of  everybody,  that  the  weather 
was  fine,  and  the  ship  comfortable.  But  I  heard  some- 
thing, as  we  read  the  letter  together  in  the  darkened 
room,  that  was  more  than  the  words  seemed  to  say. 
There  was  an  elation,  a  hint  of  triumph,  such  as  had 
never  been  in  my  father's  letters  before.  I  cannot  tell 
how  I  knew  it.  I  felt  a  stirring,  a  straining  in  my 
father's  letter.  It  was  there,  even  though  my  mother 
stumbled  over  strange  words,  even  though  she  cried,  as 
women  will  when  somebody  is  going  away.  My  father 
was  inspired  by  a  vision.  He  saw  something  —  he 
promised  us  something.  It  was  this  "America."  And 
"America"  became  my  dream. 

While  it  was  nothing  new  for  my  father  to  go  far  from 
home  in  search  of  his  fortune,  the  circumstances  in 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  143 

which  he  left  us  were  unlike  anything  we  had  experi- 
enced before.  We  had  absolutely  no  reliable  source  of 
income,  no  settled  home,  no  immediate  prospects.  We 
hardly  knew  where  we  belonged  in  the  simple  scheme  of 
our  society.  My  mother,  as  a  bread-winner,  had  nothing 
like  her  former  success.  Her  health  was  permanently 
impaired,  her  place  in  the  business  world  had  long  been 
filled  by  others,  and  there  was  no  capital  to  start  her 
anew.  Her  brothers  did  what  they  could  for  her.  They 
were  well-to-do,  but  they  all  had  large  families,  with 
marriageable  daughters  and  sons  to  be  bought  out  of 
military  service.  The  allowance  they  made  her  was 
generous  compared  to  their  means,  —  affection  and 
duty  could  do  no  more,  —  but  there  were  four  of  us 
growing  children,  and  my  mother  was  obliged  to  make 
every  effort  within  her  power  to  piece  out  her  income. 
How  quickly  we  came  down  from  a  large  establish- 
ment, with  servants  and  retainers,  and  a  place  among 
the  best  in  Polotzk,  to  a  single  room  hired  by  the  week, 
and  the  humblest  associations,  and  the  averted  heads 
of  former  friends!  But  oftenest  it  was  my  mother  who 
turned  away  her  head.  She  took  to  using  the  side 
streets,  to  avoid  the  pitiful  eyes  of  the  kind,  and  the 
scornful  eyes  of  the  haughty.  Both  were  turned  on  her 
as  she  trudged  from  store  to  store,  and  from  house  to 
house,  peddling  tea  or  other  ware;  and  both  were  hard 
to  bear.  Many  a  winter  morning  she  arose  in  the  dark, 
to  tramp  three  or  four  miles  in  the  gripping  cold, 
through  the  dragging  snow,  with  a  pound  of  tea  for  a 
distant  customer;  and  her  profit  was  perhaps  twenty 
kopecks.  Many  a  time  she  fell  on  the  ice,  as  she  climbed 
the  steep  bank  on  the  far  side  of  the  Dvina,  a  heavy 
basket  on  each  arm.  More  than  once  she  fainted  at  the 


144  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

doors  of  her  customers,  ashamed  to  knock  as  suppliant 
where  she  had  used  to  be  received  as  an  honored  guest. 
I  hope  the  angels  did  not  have  to  count  the  tears  that 
fell  on  her  frost-bitten,  aching  hands  as  she  counted 
her  bitter  earnings  at  night. 

And  who  took  care  of  us  children  while  my  mother 
tramped  the  streets  with  her  basket?  Why,  who  but 
Fetchke?  Who  but  the  little  housewife  of  twelve?  Sure 
of  our  safety  was  my  mother  with  Fetchke  to  watch; 
sure  of  our  comfort  with  Fetchke  to  cook  the  soup  and 
divide  the  scrap  of  meat  and  remember  the  next  meal. 
Joseph  was  in  heder  all  day;  the  baby  was  a  quiet  little 
thing;  Mashke  was  no  worse  than  usual.  But  still  there 
was  plenty  to  do,  with  order  to  keep  in  a  crowded  room, 
and  the  washing,  and  the  mending.  And  Fetchke  did  it 
all.  She  went  to  the  river  with  the  women  to  wash  the 
clothes,  and  tucked  up  her  dress  and  stood  bare-legged 
in  the  water,  like  the  rest  of  them,  and  beat  and  rubbed 
with  all  her  might,  till  our  miserable  rags  gleamed  white 
again. 

And  I?  I  usually  had  a  cold,  or  a  cough,  or  something 
to  disable  me;  and  I  never  had  any  talent  for  housework. 
If  I  swept  and  sanded  the  floor,  polished  the  samovar, 
and  ran  errands,  I  was  doing  much.  I  minded  the  baby, 
who  did  not  need  much  minding.  I  was  willing  enough, 
I  suppose,  but  the  hard  things  were  done  without  my 
help. 

Not  that  I  mean  to  belittle  the  part  that  I  played 
in  our  reduced  domestic  economy.  Indeed,  I  am  very 
particular  to  get  all  the  credit  due  me.  I  always  remind 
my  sister  Deborah,  who  was  the  baby  of  those  humble 
days,  that  it  was  I  who  pierced  her  ears.  Earrings  were 
a  requisite  part  of  a  girl's  toilet.  Even  a  beggar  girl  must 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  145 

have  earrings,  were  they  only  loops  of  thread  with  glass 
beads.  I  heard  my  mother  bemoan  the  baby  because 
she  had  not  time  to  pierce  her  ears.  Promptly  I  armed 
myself  with  a  coarse  needle  and  a  spool  of  thread,  and 
towed  Deborah  out  into  the  woodshed.  The  operation 
was  entirely  successful,  though  the  baby  was  entirely 
ungrateful.  And  I  am  proud  to  this  day  of  the  unflinch- 
ing manner  in  which  I  did  what  I  conceived  to  be  my 
duty.  If  Deborah  chooses  to  go  with  ungarnished  ears, 
it  is  her  affair;  my  conscience  is  free  of  all  reproach. 

I  had  a  direct  way  in  everything.  I  rushed  right  in  — 
I  spoke  right  out.  My  mother  sent  me  sometimes  to 
deliver  a  package  of  tea,  and  I  was  proud  to  help  in 
business.  One  day  I  went  across  the  Dvina  and  far  up 
"the  other  side."  It  was  a  good-sized  expedition  for  me 
to  make  alone,  and  I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  myself 
when  I  delivered  my  package,  safe  and  intact,  into  the 
hands  of  my  customer.  But  the  storekeeper  was  not 
pleased  at  all.  She  sniffed  and  sniffed,  she  pinched  the 
tea,  she  shook  it  all  out  on  the  counter. 

" N a,  take  it  back,"  she  said  in  disgust;  "this  is  not 
the  tea  I  always  buy.  It's  a  poorer  quality." 

I  knew  the  woman  was  mistaken.  I  was  acquainted 
with  my  mother's  several  grades  of  tea.  So  I  spoke  up 
manfully. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said;  "this  is  the  tea  my  mother  always 
sends  you.  There  is  no  worse  tea." 

Nothing  in  my  life  ever  hurt  me  more  than  that 
woman's  answer  to  my  argument.  She  laughed  —  she 
simply  laughed.  But  I  understood,  even  before  she 
controlled  herself  sufficiently  to  make  verbal  remarks, 
that  I  had  spoken  like  a  fool,  had  lost  my  mother  a 
customer.   I  had  only  spoken  the  truth,  but  I  had  not 


146  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

expressed  it  diplomatically.  That  was  no  way  to  make 
business. 

I  felt  very  sore  to  be  returning  home  with  the  tea 
still  in  my  hand,  but  I  forgot  my  trouble  in  watching 
a  summer  storm  gather  up  the  river.  The  few  passen- 
gers who  took  the  boat  with  me  looked  scared  as  the  sky 
darkened,  and  the  boatman  grasped  his  oars  very  so- 
berly. It  took  my  breath  away  to  see  the  signs,  but  I 
liked  it;  and  I  was  much  disappointed  to  get  home  dry. 

When  my  mother  heard  of  my  misadventure  she 
laughed,  too;  but  that  was  different,  and  I  was  able  to 
laugh  with  her. 

This  is  the  way  I  helped  in  the  housekeeping  and  in 
business.  I  hope  it  does  not  appear  as  if  I  did  not  take 
our  situation  to  heart,  for  I  did  —  in  my  own  fashion. 
It  was  plain,  even  to  an  idle  dreamer  like  me,  that  we 
were  living  on  the  charity  of  our  friends,  and  barely 
living  at  that.  It  was  plain,  from  my  father's  letters, 
that  he  was  scarcely  able  to  support  himself  in  America, 
and  that  there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  our  joining 
him.  I  realized  it  all,  but  I  considered  it  temporary,  and 
I  found  plenty  of  comfort  in  writing  long  letters  to  my 
father  —  real,  original  letters  this  time,  not  copies  of 
Reb'  Isaiah's  model  —  letters  which  my  father  treas- 
ured for  years. 

As  an  instance  of  what  I  mean  by  my  own  fashion  of 
taking  trouble  to  heart,  I  recall  the  day  when  our  house- 
hold effects  were  attached  for  a  debt.  We  had  plenty  of 
debts,  but  the  stern  creditor  who  set  the  law  on  us  this 
time  was  none  of  ours.  The  claim  was  against  a  family 
to  whom  my  mother  sublet  two  of  our  three  rooms, 
furnished  with  her  own  things.  The  police  officers,  who 
swooped  down  upon  us  without  warning,  as  was  their 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  147 

habit,  asked  no  questions  and  paid  no  heed  to  explana- 
tions. They  affixed  a  seal  to  every  lame  chair  and 
cracked  pitcher  in  the  place;  aye,  to  every  faded  petti- 
coat found  hanging  in  the  wardrobe.  These  goods,  com- 
prising all  our  possessions  and  all  our  tenant's,  would 
presently  be  removed,  to  be  sold  at  auction,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  creditor. 

Lame  chairs  and  faded  petticoats,  when  they  are  the 
last  one  has,  have  a  vital  value  in  the  owner's  eyes.  My 
mother  moved  about,  weeping  distractedly,  all  the  while 
the  officers  were  in  the  house.  The  frightened  child- 
ren cried.  Our  neighbors  gathered  to  bemoan  our  mis- 
fortune. And  over  everything  was  the  peculiar  dread 
which  only  Jews  in  Russia  feel  when  agents  of  the 
Government  invade  their  homes. 

The  fear  of  the  moment  was  in  my  heart,  as  in  every 
other  heart  there.  It  was  a  horrid,  oppressive  fear.  I 
retired  to  a  quiet  corner  to  grapple  with  it.  I  was  not 
given  to  weeping,  but  I  must  think  things  out  in  words. 
I  repeated  to  myself  that  the  trouble  was  all  about 
money.  Somebody  wanted  money  from  our  tenant,  who 
had  none  to  give.  Our  furniture  was  going  to  be  sold  to 
make  this  money.  It  was  a  mistake,  but  then  the  officers 
would  not  believe  my  mother.  Still,  it  was  only  about 
money.  Nobody  was  dead,  nobody  was  ill.  It  was  all 
about  money.  Why,  there  was  plenty  of  money  in 
Polotzk!  My  own  uncle  had  many  times  as  much  as  the 
creditor  claimed.  He  could  buy  all  our  things  back,  or 
somebody  else  could.  What  did  it  matter?  It  was  only 
money,  and  money  was  got  by  working,  and  we  were  all 
willing  to  work.  There  was  nothing  gone,  nothing  lost, 
as  when  somebody  died.  This  furniture  could  be  moved 
from  place  to  place,  and  so  could  money  be  moved,  and 


148  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

nothing  was  lost  out  of  the  world  by  the  transfer.  That 
was  all.  If  anybody  — 

Why,  what  do  I  see  at  the  window?  Breine  Malke, 
our  next-door  neighbor,  is  —  yes,  she  is  smuggling 
something  out  of  the  window!  If  she  is  caught  — !  Oh, 
I  must  help !  Breine  Malke  beckons.  She  wants  me  to 
do  something.  I  see  —  I  understand.  I  must  stand  in 
the  doorway,  to  obstruct  the  view  of  the  officers,  who 
are  all  engaged  in  the  next  room  just  now.  I  move 
readily  to  my  post,  but  I  cannot  resist  my  curiosity.  I 
must  look  over  my  shoulder  a  last  time,  to  see  what  it 
is  Breine  Malke  wants  to  smuggle  out. 

I  can  scarcely  stifle  my  laughter.  Of  all  our  earthly 
goods,  our  neighbor  has  chosen  for  salvation  a  dented 
bandbox  containing  a  moth-eaten  bonnet  from  my 
mother's  happier  days!  And  I  laugh  not  only  from 
amusement  but  also  from  lightness  of  heart.  For  I  have 
succeeded  in  reducing  our  catastrophe  to  its  simplest 
terms,  and  I  find  that  it  is  only  a  trifle,  and  no  matter 
of  life  and  death. 

I  could  not  help  it.  That  was  the  way  it  looked  to  me. 

I  am  sure  I  made  as  serious  efforts  as  anybody  to  pre- 
pare myself  for  life  in  America  on  the  lines  indicated 
in  my  father's  letters.  In  America,  he  wrote,  it  was  no 
disgrace  to  work  at  a  trade.  Workmen  and  capitalists 
were  equal.  The  employer  addressed  the  employee  as 
you,  not,  familiarly,  as  thou.  The  cobbler  and  the 
teacher  had  the  same  title,  "Mister."  And  all  the  child- 
ren, boys  and  girls,  Jews  and  Gentiles,  went  to  school ! 
Education  would  be  ours  for  the  asking,  and  economic 
independence  also,  as  soon  as  we  were  prepared.  He 
wanted  Fetchke  and  me  to  be  taught  some  trade;  so  my 
sister  was  apprenticed  to  a  dressmaker  and  I  to  a  milliner. 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  149 

Fetchke,  of  course,  was  successful,  and  I,  of  course, 
was  not.  My  sister  managed  to  learn  her  trade,  although 
most  of  the  time  at  the  dressmaker's  she  had  to  spend 
in  sweeping,  running  errands,  and  minding  the  babies; 
the  usual  occupations  of  the  apprentice  in  any  trade. 

But  I  —  I  had  to  be  taken  away  from  the  milliner's 
after  a  couple  of  months.  I  did  try,  honestly.  With  all 
my  eyes  I  watched  my  mistress  build  up  a  chimney  pot 
of  straw  and  things.  I  ripped  up  old  bonnets  with  enthu- 
siasm. I  picked  up  everybody's  spools  and  thimbles, 
and  other  far-rolling  objects.  I  did  just  as  I  was  told,  for 
I  was  determined  to  become  a  famous  milliner,  since 
America  honored  the  workman  so.  But  most  of  the  time 
I  was  sent  away  on  errands  —  to  the  market  to  buy  soup 
greens,  to  the  corner  store  to  get  change,  and  all  over 
town  with  bandboxes  half  as  round  again  as  I.  It  was 
winter,  and  I  was  not  very  well  dressed.  I  froze;  I 
coughed;  my  mistress  said  I  was  not  of  much  use  to  her. 
So  my  mother  kept  me  at  home,  and  my  career  as  a 
milliner  was  blighted. 

This  was  during  our  last  year  in  Russia,  when  I  was 
between  twelve  and  thirteen  years  of  age.  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  ashamed  of  my  failures,  but  I  did  not  have 
much  time  to  think  about  them,  because  my  Uncle 
Solomon  took  me  with  him  to  Vitebsk. 

It  was  not  my  first  visit  to  that  city.  A  few  years 
before  I  had  spent  some  days  there,  in  the  care  of  my 
father's  cousin  Rachel,  who  journeyed  periodically  to 
the  capital  of  the  province  to  replenish  her  stock  of 
spools  and  combs  and  like  small  wares,  by  the  sale  of 
which  she  was  slowly  earning  her  dowry. 

On  that  first  occasion,  Cousin  Rachel,  who  had  de- 
veloped in  business  that  dual  conscience,  one  for  her 


150  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Jewish  neighbors  and  one  for  the  Gentiles,  decided  to 
carry  me  without  a  ticket.  I  was  so  small,  though  of  an 
age  to  pay  half -fare,  that  it  was  not  difficult.  I  remem- 
ber her  simple  stratagem  from  beginning  to  end.  When 
we  approached  the  ticket  office  she  whispered  to  me  to 
stoop  a  little,  and  I  stooped.  The  ticket  agent  passed 
me.  In  the  car  she  bade  me  curl  up  in  the  seat,  and  I 
curled  up.  She  threw  a  shawl  over  me  and  bade  me  pre- 
tend to  sleep,  and  I  pretended  to  sleep.  I  heard  the  con- 
ductor collect  the  tickets.  I  knew  when  he  was  looking 
at  me.  I  heard  him  ask  my  age  and  I  heard  Cousin 
Rachel  lie  about  it.  I  was  allowed  to  sit  up  when  the 
conductor  was  gone,  and  I  sat  up  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  and  saw  everything,  and  was  perfectly,  per- 
fectly happy.  I  was  fond  of  my  cousin,  and  I  smiled 
at  her  in  perfect  understanding  and  admiration  of  her 
cleverness  in  beating  the  railroad  company. 

I  knew  then,  as  I  know  now,  beyond  a  doubt,  that 
my  Uncle  David's  daughter  was  an  honorable  woman. 
With  the  righteous  she  dealt  squarely;  with  the  unjust, 
as  best  she  could.  She  was  in  duty  bound  to  make  all 
the  money  she  could,  for  money  was  her  only  protection 
in  the  midst  of  the  enemy.  Every  kopeck  she  earned 
or  saved  was  a  scale  in  her  coat  of  armor.  We  learned 
this  code  early  in  life,  in  Polotzk;  so  I  was  pleased 
with  the  success  of  our  ruse  on  this  occasion,  though 
I  should  have  been  horrified  if  I  had  seen  Cousin  Rachel 
cheat  a  Jew. 

We  made  our  headquarters  in  that  part  of  Vitebsk 
where  my  father's  numerous  cousins  and  aunts  lived, 
in  more  or  less  poverty,  or  at  most  in  the  humblest 
comfort;  but  I  was  taken  to  my  Uncle  Solomon's  to 
spend  the  Sabbath.   I  remember  a  long  walk,  through 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  151 

magnificent  avenues  and  past  splendid  shops  and  houses 
and  gardens.  Vitebsk  was  a  metropolis  beside  provincial 
Polotzk;  and  I  was  very  small,  even  without  stooping. 

Uncle  Solomon  lived  in  the  better  part  of  the  city, 
and  I  found  his  place  very  attractive.  Still,  after  a 
night's  sleep,  I  was  ready  for  further  travel  and  adven- 
tures, and  I  set  out,  without  a  word  to  anybody,  to 
retrace  my  steps  clear  across  the  city. 

The  way  was  twice  as  long  as  on  the  preceding  day, 
perhaps  because  such  small  feet  set  the  pace,  perhaps 
because  I  lingered  as  long  as  I  pleased  at  the  shop  win- 
dows. At  some  corners,  too,  I  had  to  stop  and  study 
my  route.  I  do  not  think  I  was  frightened  at  all,  though 
I  imagine  my  back  was  very  straight  and  my  head  very 
high  all  the  way;  for  I  was  well  aware  that  I  was  out  on 
an  adventure. 

I  did  not  speak  to  any  one  till  I  reached  my  Aunt 
Leah's;  and  then  I  hardly  had  a  chance  to  speak*,  I  was 
so  much  hugged  and  laughed  over  and  cried  over, 
and  questioned  and  cross-questioned,  without  anybody 
waiting  to  hear  my  answers.  I  had  meant  to  surprise 
Cousin  Rachel,  and  I  had  frightened  her.  When  she  had 
come  to  Uncle  Solomon's  to  take  me  back,  she  found  the 
house  in  an  uproar,  everybody  frightened  at  my  disap- 
pearance. The  neighborhood  was  searched,  and  at  last 
messengers  were  sent  to  Aunt  Leah's.  The  messengers 
in  their  haste  quite  overlooked  me.  It  was  their  fault  if 
they  took  a  short  cut  unknown  to  me.  I  was  all  the  time 
faithfully  steering  by  the  sign  of  the  tobacco  shop,  and 
the  shop  with  the  jumping-jack  in  the  window,  and  the 
garden  with  the  iron  fence,  and  the  sentry  box  opposite 
a  drug  store,  and  all  the  rest  of  my  landmarks,  as  care- 
fully entered  on  my  mental  chart  the  day  before. 


152  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

r  All  this  I  told  my  scared  relatives  as  soon  as  they  let 
me,  till  they  were  convinced  that  I  was  not  lost,  nor 
stolen  by  the  gypsies,  nor  otherwise  done  away  with. 
Cousin  Rachel  was  so  glad  that  she  would  not  have  to 
return  to  Polotzk  empty-handed  that  she  would  not  let 
anybody  scold  me.  She  made  me  tell  over  and  over 
what  I  had  seen  on  the  way,  till  they  all  laughed  and 
praised  my  acuteness  for  seeing  so  much  more  than  they 
had  supposed  there  was  to  see.  Indeed,  I  was  made  a 
heroine,  which  was  just  what  I  intended  to  be  when  I 
set  out  on  my  adventure.  And  thus  ended  most  of  my 
unlawful  escapades;  I  was  more  petted  than  scolded 
for  my  insubordination. 

My  second  journey  to  Vitebsk,  in  the  company  of 
Uncle  Solomon,  I  remember  as  well  as  the  first.  I  had 
been  up  all  night,  dancing  at  a  wedding,  and  had  gone 
home  only  to  pick  up  my  small  bundle  and  be  picked 
up,  in  turn,  by  my  uncle.  I  was  a  little  taller  now,  and 
had  my  own  ticket,  like  a  real  traveller. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  morning  when  the  train  pulled 
out  of  the  station,  or  else  it  was  a  misty  day.  I  know  the 
fields  looked  soft  and  gray  when  we  got  out  into  the 
country,  and  the  trees  were  blurred.  I  did  not  want  to 
sleep.  A  new  day  had  begun  —  a  new  adventure.  I 
would  not  miss  any  of  it. 

But  the  last  day,  so  unnaturally  prolonged,  was  en- 
tangled in  the  skirts  of  the  new.  When  did  yesterday 
end?  Why  was  not  this  new  day  the  same  day  continued? 
I  looked  up  at  my  uncle,  but  he  was  smiling  at  me  in 
that  amused  way  of  his  —  he  always  seemed  to  be 
amused  at  me,  and  he  would  make  me  talk  and  then 
laugh  at  me  —  so  I  did  not  ask  my  question.  Indeed,  I 
could  not  formulate  it,  so  I  kept  staring  out  on  the  dim 


THE   BOUNDARIES   STRETCH  153 

country,  and  thinking,  and  thinking;  and  all  the  while 
the  engine  throbbed  and  lurched,  and  the  wheels  ground 
along,  and  I  was  astonished  to  hear  that  they  were 
keeping  perfectly  the  time  of  the  last  waltz  I  had  danced 
at  the  wedding.  I  sang  it  through  in  my  head.  Yes,  that 
was  the  rhythm.  The  engine  knew  it,  the  whole  machine 
repeated  it,  and  sent  vibrations  through  my  body  that 
were  just  like  the  movements  of  the  waltz.  I  was  so 
much  interested  in  this  discovery  that  I  forgot  the  pro- 
blem of  the  Continuity  of  Time;  and  from  that  day 
to  this,  whenever  I  have  heard  that  waltz,  —  one  of  the 
sweet  Danube  waltzes,  —  I  have  lived  through  that 
entire  experience:  the  festive  night,  the  misty  morning, 
the  abnormal  consciousness  of  time,  as  if  I  had  existed 
forever,  without  a  break;  the  journey,  the  dim  land- 
scape, and  the  tune  singing  itself  in  my  head.  Never  can 
I  hear  that  waltz  without  the  accompaniment  of  engine 
wheels  grinding  rhythmically  along  speeding  tracks. 

I  remained  in  Vitebsk  about  six  months.  I  do  not 
believe  I  was  ever  homesick  during  all  that  time.  I  was 
too  happy  to  be  homesick.  The  life  suited  me  extremely 
well.  My  life  in  Polotzk  had  grown  meaner  and  duller, 
as  the  family  fortunes  declined.  For  years  there  had 
been  no  lessons,  no  pleasant  excursions,  no  jolly  gather- 
ings with  uncles  and  aunts.  Poverty,  shadowed  by 
pride,  trampled  down  our  simple  ambitions  and  simpler 
joys.  I  cannot  honestly  say  that  I  was  very  sensitive  to 
our  losses.  I  do  not  remember  suffering  because  there 
was  no  jam  on  my  bread,  and  no  new  dress  for  the  holi- 
days. I  do  not  know  whether  I  was  hurt  when  some 
of  our  playmates  abandoned  us.  I  remember  myself 
of tener  in  the  attitude  of  an  onlooker,  as  on  the  occasion 
of  the  attachment  of  our  furniture,  when  I  went  off  into 


154  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

a  corner  to  think  about  it.  Perhaps  I  was  not  able  to 
cling  to  negations.  The  possession  of  the  bread  was  a 
more  absorbing  fact  than  the  loss  of  the  jam.  If  I  were 
to  read  my  character  backwards,  I  ought  to  believe  that 
I' did  miss  what  I  lacked  in  our  days  of  privation;  for 
I  know,  to  my  shame,  that  in  more  recent  years  I  have 
cried  for  jam.  But  I  am  trying  not  to  reason,  only 
to  remember;  and  from  many  scattered  and  shadowy 
memories,  that  glimmer  and  fade  away  so  fast  that  I 
cannot  fix  them  on  this  page,  I  form  an  idea,  almost  a 
conviction,  that  it  was  with  me  as  I  say. 

However  indifferent  I  may  have  been  to  what  I  had 
not,  I  was  fully  alive  to  what  I  had.  So  when  I  came  to 
Vitebsk  I  eagerly  seized  on  the  many  new  things  that  I 
found  around  me;  and  these  new  impressions  and  ex- 
periences affected  me  so  much  that  I  count  that  visit  as 
an  epoch  in  my  Russian  life. 

I  was  very  much  at  home  in  my  uncle's  household.  I 
was  a  little  afraid  of  my  aunt,  who  had  a  quick  temper, 
but  on  the  whole  I  liked  her.  She  was  fair  and  thin  and 
had  a  pretty  smile  in  the  wake  of  her  tempers.  Uncle 
Solomon  was  an  old  friend.  I  was  fond  of  him  and  he 
made  much  of  me.  His  fine  brown  eyes  were  full  of 
smiles,  and  there  always  was  a  pleasant  smile  for  me,  or 
a  teasing  one. 

Uncle  Solomon  was  comparatively  prosperous,  so  I 
soon  forgot  whatever  I  had  known  at  home  of  sordid 
cares.  I  do  not  remember  that  I  was  ever  haunted  by 
the  thought  of  my  mother,  who  slaved  to  keep  us  in 
bread;  or  of  my  sister,  so  little  older  than  myself,  who 
bent  her  little  back  to  a  woman's  work.  I  took  up  the 
life  around  me  as  if  there  were  no  other  life.  I  did  not 
play  all  the  time,  but  I  enjoyed  whatever  work  I  found 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  155 

because  I  was  so  happy.  I  helped  my  Cousin  Dinke  help 
her  mother  with  the  housework.  I  put  it  this  way 
because  I  think  my  aunt  never  set  me  any  tasks;  but 
Dinke  was  glad  to  have  me  help  wash  dishes  and  sweep 
and  make  beds.  My  cousin  was  a  gentle,  sweet  girl, 
blue-eyed  and  fair,  and  altogether  attractive.  She 
talked  to  me  about  grown-up  things,  and  I  liked  it. 
When  her  friends  came  to  visit  her  she  did  not  mind 
having  me  about,  although  my  skirts  were  so  short. 

My  helping  hand  was  extended  also  to  my  smaller 
cousins,  Mendele  and  Perele.  I  played  lotto  with  Men- 
dele  and  let  him  beat  me;  I  found  him  when  he  was  lost, 
and  I  helped  him  play  tricks  on  our  elders.  Perele,  the 
baby,  was  at  times  my  special  charge,  and  I  think  she 
did  not  suffer  in  my  hands.  I  was  a  good  nurse,  though 
my  methods  were  somewhat  original. 

Uncle  Solomon  was  often  away  on  business,  and  in  his 
absence  Cousin  Hirshel  was  my  hero.  Hirshel  was  only 
a  little  older  than  I,  but  he  was  a  pupil  in  the  high  school, 
and  wore  the  student's  uniform,  and  knew  nearly  as 
much  as  my  uncle,  I  thought.  When  he  buckled  on 
his  satchel  of  books  in  the  morning,  and  strode  away 
straight  as  a  soldier, — no  heder  boy  ever  walked  like 
that,  —  I  stood  in  the  doorway  and  worshipped  his 
retreating  steps.  I  met  him  on  his  return  in  the  late 
afternoon,  and  hung  over  him  when  he  laid  out  his 
books  for  his  lessons.  Sometimes  he  had  long  Russian 
pieces  to  commit  to  memory.  He  would  walk  up  and 
down  repeating  the  lines  out  loud,  and  I  learned  as  fast 
as  he.  He  would  let  me  hold  the  book  while  he  recited, 
and  a  proud  girl  was  I  if  I  could  correct  him. 

My  interest  in  his  lessons  amused  him;  he  did  not  take 
me  seriously.  He  looked  much  like  his  father,  and  twin- 


156  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

kled  his  eyes  at  me  in  the  same  way  and  made  fun  of  me, 
too.  But  sometimes  he  condescended  to  set  me  a  lesson 
in  spelling  or  arithmetic, — in  reading  I  was  as  good  as 
he,  —  and  if  I  did  well,  he  praised  me  and  went  and  told 
the  family  about  it;  but  lest  I  grow  too  proud  of  my 
achievements,  he  would  sit  down  and  do  mysterious 
sums  —  I  now  believe  it  was  algebra  —  to  which  I  had 
no  clue  whatever,  and  which  duly  impressed  me  with  a 
sense  of  my  ignorance. 

There  were  other  books  in  the  house  than  school- 
books.  The  Hebrew  books,  of  course,  were  there,  as  in 
other  Jewish  homes;  but  I  was  no  longer  devoted  to  the 
Psalms.  There  were  a  few  books  about  in  Russian  and 
in  Yiddish,  that  were  neither  works  of  devotion  nor  of 
instruction.  These  were  story-books  and  poems.  They 
were  a  great  surprise  to  me  and  a  greater  delight.  I  read 
them  hungrily,  all  there  were  —  a  mere  handful,  but  to 
me  an  overwhelming  treasure.  Of  all  those  books  I  re- 
member by  name  only  "Robinson  Crusoe."  I  think  I 
preferred  the  stories  to  the  poems,  though  poetry  was 
good  to  recite,  walking  up  and  down,  like  Cousin  Hir- 
shel.  That  was  my  introduction  to  secular  literature, 
but  I  did  not  understand  it  at  the  time. 

When  I  had  exhausted  the  books,  I  began  on  the  old 
volumes  of  a  Russian  periodical  which  I  found  on  a 
shelf  in  my  room.  There  was  a  high  stack  of  these  paper 
volumes,  and  I  was  so  hungry  for  books  that  I  went  at 
them  greedily,  fearing  that  I  might  not  get  through 
before  I  had  to  return  to  Polotzk. 

I  read  every  spare  minute  of  the  day,  and  most  of  the 
night.  I  scarcely  ever  stopped  at  night  until  my  lamp 
burned  out.  Then  I  would  creep  into  bed  beside  Dinke, 
but  often  my  head  burned  so  from  excitement  that  I  did 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  157 

not  sleep  at  once.  And  no  wonder.  The  violent  romances 
which  rushed  through  the  pages  of  that  periodical  were  fit 
to  inflame  an  older,  more  sophisticated  brain  than  mine. 
I  must  believe  that  it  was  a  thoroughly  respectable  mag- 
azine, because  I  found  it  in  my  Uncle  Solomon's  house; 
but  the  novels  it  printed  were  certainly  sensational,  if  I 
dare  judge  from  my  lurid  recollections.  These  romances, 
indeed,  may  have  had  their  literary  qualities,  which  I 
was  too  untrained  to  appreciate.  I  remember  nothing 
but  startling  adventures  of  strange  heroes  and  heroines, 
violent  catastrophes  in  every  chapter,  beautiful  maid- 
ens abducted  by  cruel  Cossacks,  inhuman  mothers  who 
poisoned  their  daughters  for  jealousy  of  their  lovers; 
and  all  these  unheard-of  things  happening  in  a  strange 
world,  the  very  language  of  which  was  unnatural  to  me. 
I  was  quick  enough  to  fix  meanings  to  new  words,  how- 
ever, so  keen  was  my  interest  in  what  I  read.  Indeed, 
when  I  recall  the  zest  with  which  I  devoured  those  fear- 
ful pages,  the  thrill  with  which  I  followed  the  heartless 
mother  or  the  abused  maiden  in  her  adventures,  my 
heart  beating  in  my  throat  when  my  little  lamp  began 
to  flicker;  and  then,  myself,  big-eyed  and  shivery  in 
the  dark,  stealing  to  bed  like  a  guilty  ghost,  —  when  I 
remember  all  this,  I  have  an  unpleasant  feeling,  as  of 
one  hearing  of  another's  debauch;  and  I  would  be  glad 
to  shake  the  little  bony  culprit  that  I  was  then. 

My  uncle  was  away  so  much  of  the  time  that  I  doubt 
if  he  knew  how  I  spent  my  nights.  My  aunt,  poor  hard- 
worked  housewife,  knew  too  little  of  books  to  direct  my 
reading.  My  cousins  were  not  enough  older  than  myself 
to  play  mentors  to  me.  Besides  all  this,  I  think  it  was 
tacitly  agreed,  at  my  uncle's  as  at  home,  that  Mashke 
was  best  let  alone  in  such  matters.  So  I  burnt  my  mid- 


158  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

night  lamp,  and  filled  my  mind  with  a  conglomeration 
of  images  entirely  unsuited  to  my  mental  digestion;  and 
no  one  can  say  what  they  would  have  bred  in  me,  be- 
sides headache  and  nervousness,  had  they  not  been  so 
soon  dispelled  and  superseded  by  a  host  of  strong  new 
impressions.  For  these  readings  ended  with  my  visit, 
which  was  closely  followed  by  the  preparations  for  our 
emigration. 

On  the  whole,  then,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  was  seriously 
harmed  by  my  wild  reading.  I  have  not  been  told  that 
my  taste  was  corrupted,  and  my  morals,  I  believe,  have 
also  escaped  serious  stricture.  I  would  even  say  that  I 
have  never  been  hurt  by  any  revelation,  however  dis- 
torted or  untimely,  that  I  found  in  books,  good  or  poor; 
that  I  have  never  read  an  idle  book  that  was  entirely 
useless;  and  that  I  have  never  quite  lost  whatever  was 
significant  to  my  spirit  in  any  book,  good  or  bad,  even 
though  my  conscious  memory  can  give  no  account  of  it. 

One  lived,  at  Uncle  Solomon's,  not  only  one's  own 
life,  but  the  life  of  all  around.  My  uncle,  when  he  re- 
turned after  a  short  absence,  had  stories  to  tell  and  ad- 
ventures to  describe;  and  I  learned  that  one  might  travel 
considerably  and  see  things  unknown  even  in  Vitebsk, 
without  going  as  far  as  America.  My  cousins  sometimes 
went  to  the  theatre,  and  I  listened  with  rapture  to  their 
account  of  what  they  had  seen,  and  I  learned  the  songs 
they  had  heard.  Once  Cousin  Hirshel  went  to  see  a 
giant,  who  exhibited  himself  for  three  kopecks,  and 
came  home  with  such  marvellous  accounts  of  his  aston- 
ishing proportions,  and  his  amazing  feats  of  strength, 
that  little  Mendele  cried  for  envy,  and  I  had  to  play 
lotto  with  him  and  let  him  beat  me  oh,  so  easily!  till  he 
felt  himself  a  man  again.     , 


THE  BOUNDARIES  STRETCH  159 

And  sometimes  I  had  adventures  of  my  own.  I  ex- 
plored the  city  to  some  extent  by  myself,  or  else  my 
cousins  took  me  with  them  on  their  errands.  There 
were  so  many  fine  people  to  see,  such  wonderful  shops, 
such  great  distances  to  go.  Once  they  took  me  to  a 
bookstore.  I  saw  shelves  and  shelves  of  books,  and 
people  buying  them,  and  taking  them  away  to  keep.  I 
was  told  that  some  people  had  in  their  own  houses  more 
books  than  were  in  the  store.  Was  not  that  wonderful? 
It  was  a  great  city,  Vitebsk;  I  never  could  exhaust  its 
delights. 

Although  I  did  not  often  think  of  my  people  at  home, 
struggling  desperately  to  live  while  I  revelled  in  abund- 
ance and  pleasure  and  excitement,  I  did  do  my  little  to 
help  the  family  by  giving  lessons  in  lacemaking.  As  this 
was  the  only  time  in  my  life  that  I  earned  money  by  the 
work  of  my  hands,  I  take  care  not  to  forget  it  and  I  like 
to  give  an  account  of  it. 

I  was  always,  as  I  have  elsewhere  admitted,  very 
clumsy  with  my  hands,  counting  five  thumbs  to  the 
hand.  Knitting  and  embroidery,  at  which  my  sister 
was  so  clever,  I  could  never  do  with  any  degree  of  skill. 
The  blue  peacock  with  the  red  tail  that  I  achieved  in 
cross-stitch  was  not  a  performance  of  any  grace.  Neither 
was  I  very  much  downcast  at  my  failures  in  this  field ;  I 
was  not  an  ambitious  needlewoman.  But  when  the  fad 
for  "Russian  lace"  was  introduced  into  Polotzk  by  a 
family  of  sisters  who  had  been  expelled  from  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  all  feminine  Polotzk,  on  both  sides  of  the 
Dvina,  dropped  knitting  and  crochet  needles  and  em- 
broidery frames  to  take  up  pillow  and  bobbins,  I,  too, 
was  carried  away  by  the  novelty,  and  applied  myself 
heartily  to  learn  the  intricate  art,  with  the  result  that  I 


160  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

did  master  it.  The  Russian  sisters  charged  enormous 
fees  for  lessons,  and  made  a  fortune  out  of  the  sale  of 
patterns  while  they  held  the  monopoly.  Their  pupils 
passed  on  the  art  at  reduced  fees,  and  their  pupils' 
pupils  charged  still  less;  until  even  the  humblest  cottage 
rang  with  the  pretty  click  of  the  bobbins,  and  my  Cousin 
Rachel  sold  steel  pins  by  the  ounce,  instead  of  by  the 
dozen/and  the  women  exchanged  cardboard  patterns 
from  one  end  of  town  to  the  other. 

My  teacher,  who  taught  me  without  fee,  being  a 
friend  of  our  prosperous  days,  lived  "on  the  other  side." 
It  was  winter,  and  many  a  time  I  crossed  the  frozen 
river,  carrying  a  lace  pillow  as  big  as  myself,  till  my 
hands  were  numb  with  cold.  But  I  persisted,  afraid  as  I 
was  of  cold;  and  when  I  came  to  Vitebsk  I  was  glad  of 
my  one  accomplishment.  For  Vitebsk  had  not  yet  seen 
"Russian  lace,"  and  I  was  an  acceptable  teacher  of  the 
new  art,  though  I  was  such  a  mite,  because  there  was  no 
other.  I  taught  my  Cousin  Dinke,  of  course,  and  I  had  a 
number  of  paying  pupils.  I  gave  lessons  at  my  pupils' 
homes,  and  was  very  proud,  going  thus  about  town  and 
being  received  as  a  person  of  importance.  If  my  feet  did 
not  reach  the  floor  when  I  sat  in  a  chair,  my  hands  knew 
their  business  for  once ;  and  I  was  such  a  conscientious  and 
enthusiastic  teacher  that  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
all  my  pupils  execute  difficult  pieces  before  I  left  Vitebsk. 

I  never  have  seen  money  that  was  half  so  bright  to 
look  at,  half  so  pretty  to  clink,  as  the  money  I  earned  by 
these  lessons.  And  it  was  easy  to  decide  what  to  do  with 
my  wealth.  I  bought  presents  for  everybody  I  knew.  I 
remember  to  this  day  the  pattern  of  the  shawl  I  bought 
for  my  mother.  When  I  came  home  and  unpacked  my 
treasures,  I  was  the  proudest  girl  in  Polotzk. 


THE  BOUNDARIES   STRETCH  161 

The  proudest,  but  not  the  happiest.  I  found  my  fam- 
ily in  such  a  pitiful  state  that  all  my  joy  was  stifled  by 
care,  if  only  for  a  while. 

Unwilling  to  spoil  my  holiday,  my  mother  had  not 
written  me  how  things  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse 
during  my  absence,  and  I  was  not  prepared.  Fetchke 
met  me  at  the  station,  and  conducted  me  to  a  more 
wretched  hole  than  I  had  ever  called  home  before. 

I  went  into  the  room  alone,  having  been  greeted  out- 
side by  my  mother  and  brother.  It  was  evening,  and  the 
shabbiness  of  the  apartment  was  all  the  gloomier  for  the 
light  of  a  small  kerosene  lamp  standing  on  the  bare  deal 
table.  At  one  end  of  the  table  —  is  this  Deborah?  My 
little  sister,  dressed  in  an  ugly  gray  jacket,  sat  motion- 
less in  the  lamplight,  her  fair  head  drooping,  her  little 
hands  folded  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  At  sight  of  her  I 
grew  suddenly  old.  It  was  merely  that  she  was  a  shy 
little  girl,  unbecomingly  dressed,  and  perhaps  a  little 
pale  from  underfeeding.  But  to  me,  at  that  moment, 
she  was  the  personification  of  dejection,  the  living 
symbol  of  the  fallen  family  state. 

Of  course  my  sober  mood  did  not  last  long.  Even 
"fallen  family  state"  could  be  interpreted  in  terms  of 
money  —  absent  money — and  that,  as  once  established, 
was  a  trifling  matter.  Had  n't  I  earned  money  myself? 
Heaps  of  it!  Only  look  at  this,  and  this,  and  this  that  I 
brought  from  Vitebsk,  bought  with  my  own  money! 
No,  I  did  not  remain  old.  For  many  years  more  I  was  a 
very  childish  child. 

Perhaps  I  had  spent  my  time  in  Vitebsk  to  better  ad- 
vantage than  at  the  milliner's,  from  any  point  of  view. 
When  I  returned  to  my  native  town  I  saw  things.  I 
saw  the  narrowness,  the  stifling  narrowness,  of  life  in 


162  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

Polotzk.  My  books,  my  walks,  my  visits,  as  teacher,  to 
many  homes,  had  been  so  many  doors  opening  on  a 
wider  world;  so  many  horizons,  one  beyond  the  other. 
The  boundaries  of  life  had  stretched,  and  I  had  filled 
my  lungs  with  the  thrilling  air  from  a  great  Beyond. 
Child  though  I  was,  Polotzk,  when  I  came  back,  was 
too  small  for  me. 

And  even  Vitebsk,  for  all  its  peepholes  into  a  Beyond, 
presently  began  to  shrink  in  my  imagination,  as  America 
loomed  near.  My  father's  letters  warned  us  to  prepare 
for  the  summons,  and  we  lived  in  a  quiver  of  expect- 
ation. 

Not  that  my  father  had  grown  suddenly  rich.  He 
was  so  far  from  rich  that  he  was  going  to  borrow  every 
cent  of  the  money  for  our  third-class  passage;  but  he  had 
a  business  in  view  which  he  could  carry  on  all  the  better 
for  having  the  family  with  him;  and,  besides,  we  were 
borrowing  right  and  left  anyway,  and  to  no  definite 
purpose.  With  the  children,  he  argued,  every  year  in 
Russia  was  a  year  lost.  They  should  be  spending  the 
precious  years  in  school,  in  learning  English,  in  becom- 
ing Americans.  United  in  America,  there  were  ten 
chances  of  our  getting  to  our  feet  again  to  one  chance  in 
our  scattered,  aimless  state. 

So  at  last  I  was  going  to  America!  Really,  really 
going,  at  last!  The  boundaries  burst.  The  arch  of 
heaven  soared.  A  million  suns  shone  out  for  every  star. 
The  winds  rushed  in  from  outer  space,  roaring  in  my 
ears,  "America!  America!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   EXODUS 

On  the  day  when  our  steamer  ticket  arrived,  my 
mother  did  not  go  out  with  her  basket,  my  brother 
stayed  out  of  heder,  and  my  sister  salted  the  soup  three 
times.  I  do  not  know  what  I  did  to  celebrate  the  occa- 
sion. Very  likely  I  played  tricks  on  Deborah,  and 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  my  father. 

Before  sunset  the  news  was  all  over  Polotzk  that 
Hannah  Hayye  had  received  a  steamer  ticket  for 
America.  Then  they  began  to  come.  Friends  and  foes, 
distant  relatives  and  new  acquaintances,  young  and  old, 
wise  and  foolish,  debtors  and  creditors,  and  mere  neigh- 
bors, —  from  every  quarter  of  the  city,  from  both  sides 
of  the  Dvina,  from  over  the  Polota,  from  nowhere,  —  a 
steady  stream  of  them  poured  into  our  street,  both  day 
and  night,  till  the  hour  of  our  departure.  And  my 
mother  gave  audience.  Her  faded  kerchief  halfway  off 
her  head,  her  black  ringlets  straying,  her  apron  often 
at  her  eyes,  she  received  her  guests  in  a  rainbow  of 
smiles  and  tears.  She  was  the  heroine  of  Polotzk,  and 
she  conducted  herself  appropriately.  She  gave  her 
heart's  thanks  for  the  congratulations  and  blessings 
that  poured  in  on  her;  ready  tears  for  condolences; 
patient  answers  to  monotonous  questions;  and  hand- 
shakes and  kisses  and  hugs  she  gave  gratis. 

What  did  they  not  ask,  the  eager,  foolish,  friendly 
people?  They  wanted  to  handle  the  ticket,  and  mother 
must  read  them  what  is  written  on  it.  How  much  did  it 


164  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

cost?  Was  it  all  paid  for?  Were  we  going  to  have  a 
foreign  passport  or  did  we  intend  to  steal  across  the 
border?  Were  we  not  all  going  to  have  new  dresses  to 
travel  in?  Was  it  sure  that  we  could  get  koscher  food  on 
the  ship?  And  with  the  questions  poured  in  suggestions, 
and  solid  chunks  of  advice  were  rammed  in  by  nimble 
prophecies.  Mother  ought  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  a 
" Good  Jew"  —  say,  the  Rebbe  of  Lubavitch  —  to  get 
his  blessing  on  our  journey.  She  must  be  sure  and  pack 
her  prayer  books  and  Bible,  and  twenty  pounds  of 
zwieback  at  the  least.  If  they  did  serve  trefah  on  the 
ship,  she  and  the  four  children  would  have  to  starve, 
unless  she  carried  provisions  from  home.  —  Oh,  she 
must  take  all  the  featherbeds!  Featherbeds  are  scarce 
in  America.  In  America  they  sleep  on  hard  mattresses, 
even  in  winter.  Haveh  Mirel,  Yachne  the  dressmaker's 
daughter,  who  emigrated  to  New  York  two  years  ago, 
wrote  her  mother  that  she  got  up  from  childbed  with 
sore  sides,  because  she  had  no  featherbed.  —  Mother 
must  n't  carry  her  money  in  a  pocketbook.  She  must 
sew  it  into  the  lining  of  her  jacket.  The  policemen 
in  Castle  Garden  take  all  their  money  from  the  pas- 
sengers as  they  land,  unless  the  travellers  deny  having 
any. 

And  so  on,  and  so  on,  till  my  poor  mother  was  com- 
pletely bewildered.  And  as  the  day  set  for  our  departure 
approached,  the  people  came  oftener  and  stayed  longer, 
and  rehearsed  my  mother  in  long  messages  for  their 
friends  in  America,  praying  that  she  deliver  them 
promptly  on  her  arrival,  and  without  fail,  and  might 
God  bless  her  for  her  kindness,  and  she  must  be  sure  and 
write  them  how  she  found  their  friends. 

Hay  ye  Dvoshe,  the  wig-maker,  for  the  eleventh  time 


THE  EXODUS  165 

repeating  herself,  to  my  mother,  still  patiently  atten- 
tive, thus :  — 

"Promise  me,  I  beg  you.  I  don't  sleep  nights  for 
thinking  of  him.  Emigrated  to  America  eighteen  months 
ago,  fresh  and  well  and  strong,  with  twenty-five  ruble 
in  his  pocket,  besides  his  steamer  ticket,  with  new  phy- 
lacteries, and  a  silk  skull-cap,  and  a  suit  as  good  as 
new,  —  made  it  only  three  years  before,  —  everything 
respectable,  there  could  be  nothing  better;  —  sent  one 
letter,  how  he  arrived  in  Castle  Garden,  how  well  he  was 
received  by  his  uncle's  son-in-law,  how  he  was  conducted 
to  the  baths,  how  they  bought  him  an  American  suit, 
everything  good,  fine,  pleasant;  —  wrote  how  his  rela- 
tive promised  him  a  position  in  his  business  —  a  cloth- 
ing merchant  is  he  —  makes  gold,  —  and  since  then  not 
a  postal  card,  not  a  word,  just  as  if  he  had  vanished,  as 
if  the  earth  had  swallowed  him.  0i9  weh  I  what  have  n't 
I  imagined,what  have  n't  I  dreamed,  what  have  n't  I 
lamented !  Already  three  letters  have  I  sent  —  the  last 
one,  you  know,  you  yourself  wrote  for  me,  Hannah 
Hayye,  dear  —  and  no  answer.   Lost,  as  if  in  the  sea!" 

And  after  the  application  of  a  corner  of  her  shawl  to 
eyes  and  nose,  Hayye  Dvoshe,  continuing:  — 

"  So  you  will  go  into  the  newspaper,  and  ask  them  what 
has  become  of  my  Moshele,  and  if  he  is  n't  in  Castle 
Garden,  maybe  he  went  up  to  Balti-moreh,  —  it's  in  the 
neighborhood,  you  know,  —  and  you  can  tell  them,  for  a 
mark,  that  he  has  a  silk  handkerchief  with  his  monogram 
in  Russian,  that  his  betrothed  embroidered  for  him  be- 
fore the  engagement  was  broken.  And  may  God  grant 
you  an  easy  journey,  and  may  you  arrive  in  a  propitious 
hour,  and  may  you  find  your  husband  well,  and  strong, 
and  rich,  and  may  you  both  live  to  lead  your  children 


166  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

to  the  wedding  canopy,  and  may  America  shower  gold 
on  you.    Amen." 

The  weeks  skipped,  the  days  took  wing,  an  hour  was  a 
flash  of  thought;  so  brimful  of  events  was  the  interval 
before  our  departure.  And  no  one  was  more  alive  than  I 
to  the  multiple  significance  of  the  daily  drama.  My 
mother,  full  of  grief  at  the  parting  from  home  and 
family  and  all  things  dear,  anxious  about  the  journey, 
uncertain  about  the  future,  but  ready,  as  ever,  to  take 
up  what  new  burdens  awaited  her;  my  sister,  one  with 
our  mother  in  every  hope  and  apprehension;  my  brother, 
rejoicing  in  his  sudden  release  from  heder;  and  the  little 
sister,  vaguely  excited  by  mysteries  afoot;  the  uncles 
and  aunts  and  devoted  neighbors,  sad  and  solemn  over 
their  coming  loss;  and  my  father  away  over  in  Boston, 
eager  and  anxious  about  us  in  Polotzk,  —  an  American 
citizen  impatient  to  start  his  children  on  American 
careers,  —  I  knew  the  minds  of  every  one  of  these,  and  I 
lived  their  days  and  nights  with  them  after  an  apish 
fashion  of  my  own. 

But  at  bottom  I  was  aloof  from  them  all.  What  made 
me  silent  and  big-eyed  was  the  sense  of  being  in  the 
midst  of  a  tremendous  adventure.  From  morning  till 
night  I  was  all  attention.  I  must  credit  myself  with  some 
pang  of  parting;  I  certainly  felt  the  thrill  of  expectation; 
but  keener  than  these  was  my  delight  in  the  progress  of 
the  great  adventure.  It  was  delightful  just  to  be  myself. 
I  rejoiced,  with  the  younger  children,  during  the  weeks 
of  packing  and  preparation,  in  the  relaxation  of  disci- 
pline and  the  general  demoralization  of  our  daily  life. 
It  was  pleasant  to  be  petted  and  spoiled  by  favorite 
cousins  and  stuffed  with  belated  sweets  by  unfavorite 
ones.  It  was  distinctly  interesting  to  catch  my  mother 


THE   EXODUS  167 

weeping  in  corner  cupboards  over  precious  rubbish  that 
could  by  no  means  be  carried  to  America.  It  was  agree- 
able to  have  my  Uncle  Moses  stroke  my  hair  and  regard 
me  with  affectionate  eyes,  while  he  told  me  that  I  would 
soon  forget  him,  and  asked  me,  so  coaxingly,  to  write 
him  an  account  of  our  journey.  It  was  delicious  to  be 
notorious  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Polotzk; 
to  be  stopped  and  questioned  at  every  shop-door,  when 
I  ran  out  to  buy  two  kopecks'  worth  of  butter;  to  be 
treated  with  respect  by  my  former  playmates,  if  ever  I 
found  time  to  mingle  with  them;  to  be  pointed  at  by 
my  enemies,  as  I  passed  them  importantly  on  the  street. 
And  all  my  delight  and  pride  and  interest  were  steeped 
in  a  super-feeling,  the  sense  that  it  was  I,  Mashke,  I 
myself,  that  was  moving  and  acting  in  the  midst  of 
unusual  events.  Now  that  I  was  sure  of  America,  I  was 
in  no  hurry  to  depart,  and  not  impatient  to  arrive.  I 
was  willing  to  linger  over  every  detail  of  our  progress, 
and  so  cherish  the  flavor  of  the  adventure. 

The  last  night  in  Polotzk  we  slept  at  my  uncle's  house, 
having  disposed  of  all  our  belongings,  to  the  last  three- 
legged  stool,  except  such  as  we  were  taking  with  us.  I 
could  go  straight  to  the  room  where  I  slept  with  my 
aunt  that  night,  if  I  were  suddenly  set  down  in  Polotzk. 
But  I  did  not  really  sleep.  Excitement  kept  me  awake, 
and  my  aunt  snored  hideously.  In  the  morning  I  was 
going  away  from  Polotzk,  forever  and  ever.  I  was  going 
on  a  wonderful  journey.  I  was  going  to  America.  How 
could  I  sleep? 

My  uncle  gave  out  a  false  bulletin,  with  the  last  batch 
that  the  gossips  carried  away  in  the  evening.  He  told 
them  that  we  were  not  going  to  start  till  the  second  day. 
This  he  did  in  the  hope  of  smuggling  us  quietly  out,  and 


168  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

so  saving  us  the  wear  and  tear  of  a  public  farewell.  But 
his  ruse  failed  of  success.  Half  of  Polotzk  was  at  my 
uncle's  gate  in  the  morning,  to  conduct  us  to  the  rail- 
way station,  and  the  other  half  was  already  there  before 
we  arrived. 

The  procession  resembled  both  a  funeral  and  a 
triumph.  The  women  wept  over  us,  reminding  us 
eloquently  of  the  perils  of  the  sea,  of  the  bewilderment 
of  a  foreign  land,  of  the  torments  of  homesickness  that 
awaited  us.  They  bewailed  my  mother's  lot,  who  had 
to  tear  herself  away  from  blood  relations  to  go  among 
strangers;  who  had  to  face  gendarmes,  ticket  agents,  and 
sailors,  unprotected  by  a  masculine  escort;  who  had  to 
care  for  four  young  children  in  the  confusion  of  travel, 
and  very  likely  feed  them  trefah  or  see  them  starve  on 
the  way.  Or  they  praised  her  for  a  brave  pilgrim,  and 
expressed  confidence  in  her  ability  to  cope  with  gen- 
darmes and  ticket  agents,  and  blessed  her  with  every 
other  word,  and  all  but  carried  her  in  their  arms. 

At  the  station  the  procession  disbanded  and  became  a 
mob.  My  uncle  and  my  tall  cousins  did  their  best  to 
protect  us,  but  we  wanderers  were  almost  torn  to  pieces. 
They  did  get  us  into  a  car  at  last,  but  the  riot  on  the 
station  platform  continued  unquelled.  When  the  warn- 
ing bell  rang  out,  it  was  drowned  in  a  confounding  babel 
of  voices,  —  fragments  of  the  oft-repeated  messages, 
admonitions,  lamentations,  blessings,  farewells.  "Don't 
forget!"  —  "Take  care  of  —  "  "Keep  your  tickets  —  " 
"Moshele  —  newspapers!"  "Garlick  is  best!"  "Happy 
journey!"  " God  help  you ! "  "Good-bye!  Good-bye!" 
"Remember — " 

The  last  I  saw  of  Polotzk  was  an  agitated  mass  of 
people,  waving  colored  handkerchiefs  and  other  frantic 


THE  EXODUS  169 

bits  of  calico,  madly  gesticulating,  falling  on  each 
other's  necks,  gone  wild  altogether.  Then  the  station 
became  invisible,  and  the  shining  tracks  spun  out  from 
sky  to  sky.  I  was  in  the  middle  of  the  great,  great 
world,  and  the  longest  road  was  mine. 

Memory  may  take  a  rest  while  I  copy  from  a  con- 
temporaneous document  the  story  of  the  great  voyage. 
In  accordance  with  my  promise  to  my  uncle,  I  wrote, 
during  my  first  months  in  America,  a  detailed  account 
of  our  adventures  between  Polotzk  and  Boston.  Ink 
was  cheap,  and  the  epistle,  in  Yiddish,  occupied  me  for 
many  hot  summer  hours.  It  was  a  great  disaster,  there- 
fore, to  have  a  lamp  upset  on  my  writing-table,  when  I 
was  near  the  end,  soaking  the  thick  pile  of  letter  sheets 
in  kerosene.  I  was  obliged  to  make  a  fair  copy  for 
my  uncle,  and  my  father  kept  the  oily,  smelly  original. 
After  a  couple  of  years'  teasing,  he  induced  me  to  trans- 
late the  letter  into  English,  for  the  benefit  of  a  friend 
who  did  not  know  Yiddish;  for  the  benefit  of  the  pre- 
sent narrative,  which  was  not  thought  of  thirteen  years 
ago.  I  can  hardly  refrain  from  moralizing  as  I  turn  to 
the  leaves  of  my  childish  manuscript,  grateful  at  last 
for  the  calamity  of  the  overturned  lamp. 

Our  route  lay  over  the  German  border,  with  Hamburg 
for  our  port.  On  the  way  to  the  frontier  we  stopped  for  a 
farewell  visit  in  Vilna,  where  my  mother  had  a  brother. 
Vilna  is  slighted  in  my  description.  I  find  special  men- 
tion of  only  two  things,  the  horse-cars  and  the  book- 
stores. 

On  a  gray  wet  morning  in  early  April  we  set  out  for 
the  frontier.  This  was  the  real  beginning  of  our  jour- 
ney, and  all  my  faculties  of  observation  were  alert. 


170  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

I  took  note  of  everything,  —  the  weather,  the  trains,  the 
bustle  of  railroad  stations,  our  fellow  passengers,  and 
the  family  mood  at  every  stage  of  our  progress. 

The  bags  and  bundles  which  composed  our  travelling 
outfit  were  much  more  bulky  than  valuable.  A  trifling 
sum  of  money,  the  steamer  ticket,  and  the  foreign 
passport  were  the  magic  agents  by  means  of  which  we 
hoped  to  span  the  five  thousand  miles  of  earth  and  water 
between  us  and  my  father.  The  passport  was  supposed 
to  pass  us  over  the  frontier  without  any  trouble,  but  on 
account  of  the  prevalence  of  cholera  in  some  parts  of  the 
country,  the  poorer  sort  of  travellers,  such  as  emigrants, 
were  subjected,  at  this  time,  to  more  than  ordinary 
supervision  and  regulation. 

At  Versbolovo,  the  last  station  on  the  Russian  side, 
we  met  the  first  of  our  troubles.  A  German  physician 
and  several  gendarmes  boarded  the  train  and  put  us 
through  a  searching  examination  as  to  our  health,  des- 
tination, and  financial  resources.  As  a  result  of  the  in- 
quisition we  were  informed  that  we  would  not  be  allowed 
to  cross  the  frontier  unless  we  exchanged  our  third-class 
steamer  ticket  for  second-class,  which  would  require  two 
hundred  rubles  more  than  we  possessed.  Our  passport 
was  taken  from  us,  and  we  were  to  be  turned  back  on  our 
journey. 

My  letter  describes  the  situation :  — 

We  were  homeless,  houseless,  and  friendless  in  a  strange 
place.  We  had  hardly  money  enough  to  last  us  through  the 
voyage  for  which  we  had  hoped  and  waited  for  three  long 
years.  We  had  suffered  much  that  the  reunion  we  longed  for 
might  come  about;  we  had  prepared  ourselves  to  suffer  more 
in  order  to  bring  it  about,  and  had  parted  with  those  we 
loved,  with  places  that  were  dear  to  us  in  spite  of  what  we 


THE  EXODUS  171 

passed  through  in  them,  never  again  to  see  them,  as  we  were 
convinced  —  all  for  the  same  dear  end.  With  strong  hopes 
and  high  spirits  that  hid  the  sad  parting,  we  had  started  on 
our  long  journey.  And  now  we  were  checked  so  unexpectedly 
but  surely,  the  blow  coming  from  where  we  little  expected  it, 
being,  as  we  believed,  safe  in  that  quarter.  When  my  mother 
had  recovered  enough  to  speak,  she  began  to  argue  with  the 
gendarme,  telling  him  our  story  and  begging  him  to  be  kind. 
The  children  were  frightened  and  all  but  I  cried.  I  was  only 
wondering  what  would  happen. 

Moved  by  our  distress,  the  German  officers  gave  us 
the  best  advice  they  could.  We  were  to  get  out  at 
the  station  of  Kibart,  on  the  Russian  side,  and  apply 
to  one  Herr  Schidorsky,  who  might  help  us  on  our 
way. 
*  The  letter  goes  on :  — 

We  are  in  Kibart,  at  the  depot.  The  least  important 
particular,  even,  of  that  place,  I  noticed  and  remembered. 
How  the  porter  —  he  was  an  ugly,  grinning  man  —  carried  in 
our  things  and  put  them  away  in  the  southern  corner  of  the 
big  room,  on  the  floor;  how  we  sat  down  on  a  settee  near  them, 
a  yellow  settee;  how  the  glass  roof  let  in  so  much  light  that  we 
had  to  shade  our  eyes  because  the  car  had  been  dark  and  we 
had  been  crying;  how  there  were  only  a  few  people  besides 
ourselves  there,  and  how  I  began  to  count  them  and  stopped 
when  I  noticed  a  sign  over  the  head  of  the  fifth  person  —  a 
little  woman  with  a  red  nose  and  a  pimple  on  it  —  and  tried 
to  read  the  German,  with  the  aid  of  the  Russian  translation 
below.  I  noticed  all  this  and  remembered  it,  as  if  there  were 
nothing  else  in  the  world  for  me  to  think  of. 

The  letter  dwells  gratefully  on  the  kindness  of  Herr 
Schidorsky,  who  became  the  agent  of  our  salvation.  He 
procured  my  mother  a  pass  to  Eidtkuhnen,  the  German 


172  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

frontier  station,  where  his  older  brother,  as  chairman  of 
a  well-known  emigrant  aid  association,  arranged  for 
our  admission  into  Germany.  During  the  negotiations, 
which  took  several  days,  the  good  man  of  Kibart  enter- 
tained us  in  his  own  house,  shabby  emigrants  though 
we  were.  The  Schidorsky  brothers  were  Jews,  but  it  is 
not  on  that  account  that  their  name  has  been  lovingly 
remembered  for  fifteen  years  in  my  family. 

On  the  German  side  our  course  joined  that  of  many 
other  emigrant  groups,  on  their  way  to  Hamburg  and 
other  ports.  We  were  a  clumsy  enough  crowd,  with 
wide,  unsophisticated  eyes,  with  awkward  bundles 
hugged  in  our  arms,  and  our  hearts  set  on  America. 

The  letter  to  my  uncle  faithfully  describes  every  stage 
of  our  bustling  progress.  Here  is  a  sample  scene  of  many 
that  I  recorded :  — 

There  was  a  terrible  confusion  in  the  baggage-room  where 
we  were  directed  to  go.  Boxes,  baskets,  bags,  valises,  and 
great,  shapeless  things  belonging  to  no  particular  class,  were 
thrown  about  by  porters  and  other  men,  who  sorted  them  and 
put  tickets  on  all  but  those  containing  provisions,  while  others 
were  opened  and  examined  in  haste.  At  last  our  turn  came, 
and  our  things,  along  with  those  of  all  other  American -bound 
travellers,  were  taken  away  to  be  steamed  and  smoked  and 
other  such  processes  gone  through.  We  were  told  to  wait  till 
notice  should  be  given  us  of  something  else  to  be  done. 

The  phrases  "we  were  told  to  do  this"  and  "told  to 
do  that"  occur  again  and  again  in  my  narrative,  and  the 
most  effective  handling  of  the  facts  could  give  no  more 
vivid  picture  of  the  proceedings.  We  emigrants  were 
herded  at  the  stations,  packed  in  the  cars,  and  driven 
from  place  to  place  like  cattle. 


THE   EXODUS  173 

At  the  expected  hour  we  all  tried  to  find  room  in  a  car 
indicated  by  the  conductor.  We  tried,  but  could  only  find 
enough  space  on  the  floor  for  our  baggage,  on  which  we  made- 
believe  sitting  comfortably.  For  now  we  were  obliged  to 
exchange  the  comparative  comforts  of  a  third-class  passenger 
train  for  the  certain  discomforts  of  a  fourth-class  one.  There 
were  only  four  narrow  benches  in  the  whole  car,  and  about 
twice  as  many  people  were  already  seated  on  these  as  they 
were  probably  supposed  to  accommodate.  All  other  space,  to 
the  last  inch,  was  crowded  by  passengers  or  their  luggage.  It 
was  very  hot  and  close  and  altogether  uncomfortable,  and 
still  at  every  new  station  fresh  passengers  came  crowding  in, 
and  actually  made  room,  spare  as  it  was,  for  themselves.  It 
became  so  terrible  that  all  glared  madly  at  the  conductor  as 
he  allowed  more  people  to  come  into  that  prison,  and  trembled 
at  the  announcement  of  every  station.  I  cannot  see  even 
now  how  the  officers  could  allow  such  a  thing;  it  was  really 
dangerous. 

The  following  is  my  attempt  to  describe  a  flying 
glimpse  of  a  metropolis :  — 

Towards  evening  we  came  into  Berlin.  I  grow  dizzy  even 
now  when  I  think  of  our  whirling  through  that  city.  It 
seemed  we  were  going  faster  and  faster  all  the  time,  but  it 
was  only  the  whirl  of  trains  passing  in  opposite  directions  and 
close  to  us  that  made  it  seem  so.  The  sight  of  crowds  of  people 
such  as  we  had  never  seen  before,  hurrying  to  and  fro,  in  and 
out  of  great  depots  that  danced  past  us,  helped  to  make  it 
more  so.  Strange  sights,  splendid  buildings,  shops,  people,  and 
animals,  all  mingled  in  one  great,  confused  mass  of  a  dispo- 
sition to  continually  move  in  a  great  hurry,  wildly,  with  no 
other  aim  but  to  make  one's  head  go  round  and  round,  in 
following  its  dreadful  motions.  Round  and  round  went  my 
head.  It  was  nothing  but  trains,  depots,  crowds,  —  crowds, 
depots,  trains,  —  again  and  again,  with  no  beginning,  no  end, 


174  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

only  a  mad  dance !  Faster  and  faster  we  go,  faster  still,  and 
the  noise  increases  with  the  speed.  Bells,  whistles,  hammers, 
locomotives  shrieking  madly,  men's  voices,  peddlers'  cries, 
horses'  hoofs,  dogs'  barkings  —  all  united  in  doing  their  best 
to  drown  every  other  sound  but  their  own,  and  made  such  a 
deafening  uproar  in  the  attempt  that  nothing  could  keep  it 
out. 

The  plight  of  the  bewildered  emigrant  on  the  way  to 
foreign  parts  is  always  pitiful  enough,  but  for  us  who 
came  from  plague-ridden  Russia  the  terrors  of  the  way 
were  doubled. 

In  a  great  lonely  field,  opposite  a  solitary  house  within  a 
large  yard,  our  train  pulled  up  at  last,  and  a  conductor  com- 
manded the  passengers  to  make  haste  and  get  out.  He  need 
not  have  told  us  to  hurry;  we  were  glad  enough  to  be  free 
again  after  such  a  long  imprisonment  in  the  uncomfortable 
car.  All  rushed  to  the  door.  We  breathed  more  freely  in  the 
open  field,  but  the  conductor  did  not  wait  for  us  to  enjoy  our 
freedom.  He  hurried  us  into  the  one  large  room  which  made 
up  the  house,  and  then  into  the  yard.  Here  a  great  many  men 
and  women,  dressed  in  white,  received  us,  the  women  attend- 
ing to  the  women  and  girls  of  the  passengers,  and  the  men  to 
the  others. 

This  was  another  scene  of  bewildering  confusion,  parents 
losing  their  children,  and  little  ones  crying;  baggage  being 
thrown  together  in  one  corner  of  the  yard,  heedless  of  con- 
tents, which  suffered  in  consequence;  those  white-clad  Ger- 
mans shouting  commands,  always  accompanied  with  "Quick! 
Quick!"  —  the  confused  passengers  obeying  all  orders  like 
meek  children,  only  questioning  now  and  then  what  was 
going  to  be  done  with  them. 

And  no  wonder  if  in  some  minds  stories  arose  of  people 
being  captured  by  robbers,  murderers,  and  the  like.  Here  we 
had  been  taken  to  a  lonely  place  where  only  that  house  was  to 


THE  EXODUS  175 

be  seen;  our  things  were  taken  away,  our  friends  separated 
from  us;  a  man  came  to  inspect  us,  as  if  to  ascertain  our  full 
value;  strange-looking  people  driving  us  about  like  dumb 
animals,  helpless  and  unresisting;  children  we  could  not  see 
crying  in  a  way  that  suggested  terrible  things;  ourselves 
driven  into  a  little  room  where  a  great  kettle  was  boiling  on  a 
little  stove;  our  clothes  taken  off,  our  bodies  rubbed  with  a 
slippery  substance  that  might  be  any  bad  thing;  a  shower  of 
warm  water  let  down  on  us  without  warning;  again  driven  to 
another  little  room  where  we  sit,  wrapped  in  woollen  blankets 
till  large,  coarse  bags  are  brought  in,  their  contents  turned 
out,  and  we  see  only  a  cloud  of  steam,  and  hear  the  women's 
orders  to  dress  ourselves,  —  "Quick!  Quick!"  —  or  else 
we'll  miss  —  something  we  cannot  hear.  We  are  forced  to 
pick  out  our  clothes  from  among  all  the  others,  with  the  steam 
blinding  us;  we  choke,  cough,  entreat  the  women  to  give  us 
time;  they  persist,  "Quick!  Quick!  —  or  you'll  miss  the 
train ! "  —  Oh,  so  we  really  won't  be  murdered !  They  are  only 
making  us  ready  for  the  continuing  of  our  journey,  cleaning 
us  of  all  suspicions  of  dangerous  sickness.  Thank  God ! 

In  Polotzk,  if  the  cholera  broke  out,  as  it  did  once  or 
twice  in  every  generation,  we  made  no  such  fuss  as  did 
these  Germans.  Those  who  died  of  the  sickness  were 
buried,  and  those  who  lived  ran  to  the  synagogues  to 
pray.  We  travellers  felt  hurt  at  the  way  the  Germans 
treated  us.  My  mother  nearly  died  of  cholera  once,  but 
she  was  given  a  new  name,  a  lucky  one,  which  saved 
her;  and  that  was  when  she  was  a  small  girl.  None  of  us 
were  sick  now,  yet  hear  how  we  were  treated!  Those 
gendarmes  and  nurses  always  shouted  their  commands 
at  us  from  a  distance,  as  fearful  of  our  touch  as  if  we 
had  been  lepers.  J  < 

We  arrived  in  Hamburg  early  one  morning,  after  a 
long  night  in  the  crowded  cars.  We  were  marched  up  to 


176  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

a  strange  vehicle,  long  and  narrow  and  high,  drawn  by 
two  horses  and  commanded  by  a  mute  driver.  We  were 
piled  up  on  this  wagon,  our  baggage  was  thrown  after 
us,  and  we  started  on  a  sight-seeing  tour  across  the  city 
of  Hamburg.  The  sights  I  faithfully  enumerate  for  the 
benefit  of  my  uncle  include  little  carts  drawn  by  dogs, 
and  big  cars  that  run  of  themselves,  later  identified  as 
electric  cars. 

The  humorous  side  of  our  adventures  did  not  escape 
me.  Again  and  again  I  come  across  a  laugh  in  the  long 
pages  of  the  historic  epistle.  The  description  of  the  ride 
through  Hamburg  ends  with  this :  — 

The  sight-seeing  was  not  all  on  our  side.  I  noticed  many 
people  stopping  to  look  at  us  as  if  amused,  though  most  passed 
by  us  as  though  used  to  such  sights.  We  did  make  a  queer 
appearance  all  in  a  long  row,  up  above  people's  heads.  In 
fact,  we  looked  like  a  flock  of  giant  fowls  roosting,  only  wide 
awake. 

The  smiles  and  shivers  fairly  crowded  each  other  in 
some  parts  of  our  career. 

Suddenly,  when  everything  interesting  seemed  at  an  end, 
we  all  recollected  how  long  it  was  since  we  had  started  on  our 
funny  ride.  Hours,  we  thought,  and  still  the  horses  ran.  Now 
we  rode  through  quietei  streets  where  there  were  fewer  shops 
and  more  wooden  houses.  Still  the  horses  seemed  to  have  but 
just  started.  I  looked  over  our  perch  again.  Something  made 
me  think  of  a  description  I  had  read  of  criminals  being  carried 
on  long  journeys  in  uncomfortable  things  —  like  this?  Well, 
it  was  strange  —  this  long,  long  drive,  the  conveyance,  no 
word  of  explanation;  and  all,  though  going  different  ways, 
being  packed  off  together.  We  were  strangers;  the  driver 
knew  it.   He  might  take  us  anywhere  —  how  could  we  tell? 


THE  EXODUS  177 

I  was  frightened  again  as  in  Berlin.  The  faces  around  me  con- 
fessed the  same. 

Yes,  we  are  frightened.  We  are  very  still.  Some  Polish 
women  over  there  have  fallen  asleep,  and  the  rest  of  us  look 
such  a  picture  of  woe,  and  yet  so  funny,  it  is  a  sight  to  see  and 
remember. 

Our  mysterious  ride  came  to  an  end  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  city,  where  we  were  once  more  lined  up,  cross- 
questioned,  disinfected,  labelled,  and  pigeonholed.  This 
was  one  of  the  occasions  when  we  suspected  that  we 
were  the  victims  of  a  conspiracy  to  extort  money  from 
us;  for  here,  as  at  every  repetition  of  the  purifying 
operations  we  had  undergone,  a  fee  was  levied  on  us,  so 
much  per  head.  My  mother,  indeed,  seeing  her  tiny 
hoard  melting  away,  had  long  since  sold  some  articles 
from  our  baggage  to  a  fellow  passenger  richer  than  she, 
but  even  so  she  did  not  have  enough  money  to  pay  the 
fee  demanded  of  her  in  Hamburg.  Her  statement  was 
not  accepted,  and  we  all  suffered  the  last  indignity  of 
having  our  persons  searched. 

This  last  place  of  detention  turned  out  to  be  a  prison. 
"Quarantine"  they  called  it,  and  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  it  —  two  weeks  of  it.  Two  weeks  within  high  brick 
walls,  several  hundred  of  us  herded  in  half  a  dozen 
compartments,  —  numbered  compartments,  —  sleeping 
in  rows,  like  sick  people  in  a  hospital;  with  roll-call 
morning  and  night,  and  short  rations  three  times  a  day; 
with  never  a  sign  of  the  free  world  beyond  our  barred 
windows;  with  anxiety  and  longing  and  homesickness 
in  our  hearts,  and  in  our  ears  the  unfamiliar  voice  of  the 
invisible  ocean,  which  drew  and  repelled  us  at  the  same 
time.  The  fortnight  in  quarantine  was  not  an  episode; 
it  was  an  epoch,  divisible  into  eras,  periods,  events. 


178  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

The  greatest  event  was  the  arrival  of  some  ship  to  take 
some  of  the  waiting  passengers.  When  the  gates  were  opened 
and  the  lucky  ones  said  good-bye,  those  left  behind  felt  hope- 
less of  ever  seeing  the  gates  open  for  them.  It  was  both 
pleasant  and  painful,  for  the  strangers  grew  to  be  fast  friends 
in  a  day,  and  really  rejoiced  in  each  other's  fortune;  but  the 
regretful  envy  could  not  be  helped  either. 

Our  turn  came  at  last.  We  were  conducted  through 
the  gate  of  departure,  and  after  some  hours  of  bewil- 
dering manoeuvres,  described  in  great  detail  in  the  re- 
port to  my  uncle,  we  found  ourselves  —  we  five  fright- 
ened pilgrims  from  Polotzk  —  on  the  deck  of  a  great 
big  steamship  afloat  on  the  strange  big  waters  of  the 
ocean. 

For  sixteen  days  the  ship  was  our  world.  My  letter 
dwells  solemnly  on  the  details  of  the  life  at  sea,  as  if 
afraid  to  cheat  my  uncle  of  the  smallest  circumstance. 
It  does  not  shrink  from  describing  the  torments  of  sea- 
sickness; it  notes  every  change  in  the  weather.  A  rough 
night  is  described,  when  the  ship  pitched  and  rolled  so 
that  people  were  thrown  from  their  berths;  days  and 
nights  when  we  crawled  through  dense  fogs,  our  fog- 
horn drawing  answering  warnings  from  invisible  ships. 
The  perils  of  the  sea  were  not  minimized  in  the  imagina- 
tions of  us  inexperienced  voyagers.  The  captain  and  his 
officers  ate  their  dinners,  smoked  their  pipes  and  slept 
soundly  in  their  turns,  while  we  frightened  emigrants 
turned  our  faces  to  the  wall  and  awaited  our  watery 
graves. 

All  this  while  the  seasickness  lasted.  Then  came 
happy  hours  on  deck,  with  fugitive  sunshine,  birds  atop 
the  crested  waves,  band  music  and  dancing  and  fun. 
I  explored  the  ship,  made  friends  with  officers  and  crew, 


THE  EXODUS  179 

or  pursued  my  thoughts  in  quiet  nooks.  It  was  my  first 
experience  of  the  ocean,  and  I  was  profoundly  moved. 

Oh,  what  solemn  thoughts  I  had!  How  deeply  I  felt  the 
greatness,  the  power  of  the  scene !  The  immeasurable  distance 
from  horizon  to  horizon;  the  huge  billows  forever  changing 
their  shapes  —  now  only  a  wavy  and  rolling  plain,  now  a 
chain  of  great  mountains,  coming  and  going  farther  away; 
then  a  town  in  the  distance,  perhaps,  with  spires  and  towers 
and  buildings  of  gigantic  dimensions;  and  mostly  a  vast  mass 
of  uncertain  shapes,  knocking  against  each  other  in  fury, 
and  seething  and  foaming  in  their  anger;  the  gray  sky,  with 
its  mountains  of  gloomy  clouds,  flying,  moving  with  the 
waves,  as  it  seemed,  very  near  them;  the  absence  of  any  object 
besides  the  one  ship;  and  the  deep,  solemn  groans  of  the  sea, 
sounding  as  if  all  the  voices  of  the  world  had  been  turned  into 
sighs  and  then  gathered  into  that  one  mournful  sound  —  so 
deeply  did  I  feel  the  presence  of  these  things,  that  the  feeling 
became  one  of  awe,  both  painful  and  sweet,  and  stirring  and 
warming,  and  deep  and  calm  and  grand. 

I  would  imagine  myself  all  alone  on  the  ocean,  and  Robin- 
son Crusoe  was  very  real  to  me.  I  was  alone  sometimes.  I  was 
aware  of  no  human  presence;  I  was  conscious  only  of  sea  and 
sky  and  something  I  did  not  understand.  And  as  I  listened  to 
its  solemn  voice,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  found  a  friend,  and  knew 
that  I  loved  the  ocean.  It  seemed  as  if  it  were  within  as  well 
as  without,  part  of  myself;  and  I  wondered  how  I  had  lived 
without  it,  and  if  I  could  ever  part  with  it. 

And  so  suffering,  fearing,  brooding,  rejoicing,  we 
crept  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  coveted  shore,  until,  on 
a  glorious  May  morning,  six  weeks  after  our  departure 
from  Polotzk,  our  eyes  beheld  the  Promised  Land,  and 
my  father  received  us  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   PROMISED    LAND 

Having  made  such  good  time  across  the  ocean,  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  proceed  no  less  rapidly  on  terra  fir  ma, 
where,  after  all,  I  am  more  at  home.  And  yet  here  is 
where  I  falter.  Not  that  I  hesitated,  even  for  the  space 
of  a  breath,  in  my  first  steps  in  America.  There  was  no 
time  to  hesitate.  The  most  ignorant  immigrant,  on 
landing,  proceeds  to  give  and  receive  greetings,  to  eat, 
sleep,  and  rise,  after  the  manner  of  his  own  country; 
wherein  he  is  corrected,  admonished,  and  laughed  at, 
whether  by  interested  friends  or  the  most  indifferent 
strangers;  and  his  American  experience  is  thus  begun. 
The  process  is  spontaneous  on  all  sides,  like  the  edu- 
cation of  the  child  by  the  family  circle.  But  while  the 
most  stupid  nursery  maid  is  able  to  contribute  her  part 
toward  the  result,  we  do  not  expect  an  analysis  of  the 
process  to  be  furnished  by  any  member  of  the  family, 
least  of  all  by  the  engaging  infant.  The  philosophical 
maiden  aunt  alone,  or  some  other  witness  equally  psy- 
chological and  aloof,  is  able  to  trace  the  myriad  efforts 
by  which  the  little  Johnnie  or  Nellie  acquires  a  secure 
hold  on  the  disjointed  parts  of  the  huge  plaything,  life. 

Now  I  was  not  exactly  an  infant  when  I  was  set  down, 
on  a  May  day  some  fifteen  years  ago,  in  this  pleasant 
nursery  of  America.  I  had  long  since  acquired  the  use 
of  my  faculties,  and  had  collected  some  bits  of  experi- 
ence, practical  and  emotional,  and  had  even  learned  to 
give  an  account  of  them.    Still,  I  had  very  little  per- 


THE  PROMISED   LAND  181 

spective,  and  my  observations  and  comparisons  were 
superficial.  I  was  too  much  carried  away  to  analyze  the 
forces  that  were  moving  me.  My  Polotzk  I  knew  well 
before  I  began  to  judge  it  and  experiment  with  it. 
America  was  bewilderingly  strange,  unimaginably  com- 
plex, delightfully  unexplored.  I  rushed  impetuously  out 
of  the  cage  of  my  provincialism  and  looked  eagerly 
about  the  brilliant  universe.  My  question  was,  What 
have  we  here?  —  not,  What  does  this  mean?  That 
query  came  much  later.  When  I  now  become  retrospect- 
ively introspective,  I  fall  into  the  predicament  of  the 
centipede  in  the  rhyme,  who  got  along  very  smoothly 
until  he  was  asked  which  leg  came  after  which,  where- 
upon he  became  so  rattled  that  he  could  n't  take  a  step. 
I  know  I  have  come  on  a  thousand  feet,  on  wings,  winds, 
and  American  machines,  —  I  have  leaped  and  run  and 
climbed  and  crawled,  —  but  to  tell  which  step  came 
after  which  I  find  a  puzzling  matter.  Plenty  of  maiden 
aunts  were  present  during  my  second  infancy,  in  the 
guise  of  immigrant  officials,  school-teachers,  settlement 
workers,  and  sundry  other  unprejudiced  and  critical 
observers.  Their  statistics  I  might  properly  borrow  to 
fill  the  gaps  in  my  recollections,  but  I  am  prevented  by 
my  sense  of  harmony.  The  individual,  we  know,  is  a 
creature  unknown  to  the  statistician,  whereas  I  under- 
took to  give  the  personal  view  of  everything.  So  I  am 
bound  to  unravel,  as  well  as  I  can,  the  tangle  of  events, 
outer  and  inner,  which  made  up  the  first  breathless 
years  of  my  American  life. 

During  his  three  years  of  probation,  my  father  had 
made  a  number  of  false  starts  in  business.  His  history 
for  that  period  is  the  history  of  thousands  who  come 
to  America,  like  him,  with  pockets  empty,  hands  un- 


182  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

trained  to  the  use  of  tools,  minds  cramped  by  centuries 
of  repression  in  their  native  land.  Dozens  of  these  men 
pass  under  your  eyes  every  day,  my  American  friend, 
too  absorbed  in  their  honest  affairs  to  notice  the  looks 
of  suspicion  which  you  cast  at  them,  the  repugnance 
with  which  you  shrink  from  their  touch.  You  see  them 
shuffle  from  door  to  door  with  a  basket  of  spools  and 
buttons,  or  bending  over  the  sizzling  irons  in  a  basement 
tailor  shop,  or  rummaging  in  your  ash  can,  or  moving 
a  pushcart  from  curb  to  curb,  at  the  command  of  the 
burly  policeman.  "The  Jew  peddler!"  you  say,  and  dis- 
miss him  from  your  premises  and  from  your  thoughts, 
never  dreaming  that  the  sordid  drama  of  his  days  may 
have  a  moral  that  concerns  you.  What  if  the  creature 
with  the  untidy  beard  carries  in  his  bosom  his  citizenship 
papers?  What  if  the  cross-legged  tailor  is  supporting  a 
boy  in  college  who  is  one  day  going  to  mend  your  state 
constitution  for  you?  What  if  the  ragpicker's  daughters 
are  hastening  over  the  ocean  to  teach  your  children  in 
the  public  schools?  Think,  every  time  you  pass  the 
greasy  alien  on  the  street,  that  he  was  born  thousands  of 
years  before  the  oldest  native  American;  and  he  may 
have  something  to  communicate  to  you,  when  you  two 
shall  have  learned  a  common  language.  Remember 
that  his  very  physiognomy  is  a  cipher  the  key  to  which 
it  behooves  you  to  search  for  most  diligently. 

By  the  time  we  joined  my  father,  he  had  surveyed 
many  avenues  of  approach  toward  the  coveted  citadel  of 
fortune.  One  of  these,  heretofore  untried,  he  now  pro- 
posed to  essay,  armed  with  new  courage,  and  cheered 
on  by  the  presence  of  his  family.  In  partnership  with  an 
energetic  little  man  who  had  an  English  chapter  in  his 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  183 

history,  he  prepared  to  set  up  a  refreshment  booth  on 
Crescent  Beach.  But  while  he  was  completing  arrange- 
ments at  the  beach  we  remained  in  town,  where  we 
enjoyed  the  educational  advantages  of  a  thickly  popu- 
lated neighborhood;  namely,  Wall  Street,  in  the  West 
End  of  Boston. 

Anybody  who  knows  Boston  knows  that  the  West 
and  North  Ends  are  the  wrong  ends  of  that  city.  They 
form  the  tenement  district,  or,  in  the  newer  phrase,  the 
slums  of  Boston.  Anybody  who  is  acquainted  with  the 
slums  of  any  American  metropolis  knows  that  that  is 
the  quarter  where  poor  immigrants  foregather,  to  live, 
for  the  most  part,  as  unkempt,  half -washed,  toiling,  un- 
aspiring foreigners;  pitiful  in  the  eyes  of  social  mission- 
aries, the  despair  of  boards  of  health,  the  hope  of  ward 
politicians,  the  touchstone  of  American  democracy.  The 
well-versed  metropolitan  knows  the  slums  as  a  sort  of 
house  of  detention  for  poor  aliens,  where  they  live  on 
probation  till  they  can  show  a  certificate  of  good 
citizenship. 

He  may  know  all  this  and  yet  not  guess  how  Wall 
Street,  in  the  West  End,  appears  in  the  eyes  of  a  little 
immigrant  from  Polotzk.  What  would  the  sophisti- 
cated sight-seer  say  about  Union  Place,  off  Wall  Street, 
where  my  new  home  waited  for  me?  He  would  say  that 
it  is  no  place  at  all,  but  a  short  box  of  an  alley.  Two 
rows  of  three-story  tenements  are  its  sides,  a  stingy  strip 
of  sky  is  its  lid,  a  littered  pavement  is  the  floor,  and  a 
narrow  mouth  its  exit. 

But  I  saw  a  very  different  picture  on  my  introduction 
to  Union  Place.  I  saw  two  imposing  rows  of  brick  build- 
ings, loftier  than  any  dwelling  I  had  ever  lived  in.  Brick 
was  even  on  the  ground  for  me  to  tread  on,  instead  of 


184  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

common  earth  or  boards.  Many  friendly  windows  stood 
open,  filled  with  uncovered  heads  of  women  and  children. 
I  thought  the  people  were  interested  in  us,  which  was 
very  neighborly.  I  looked  up  to  the  topmost  row  of 
windows,  and  my  eyes  were  filled  with  the  May  blue  of 
an  American  sky ! 

In  our  days  of  affluence  in  Russia  we  had  been 
accustomed  to  upholstered  parlors,  embroidered  linen, 
silver  spoons  and  candlesticks,  goblets  of  gold,  kitchen 
shelves  shining  with  copper  and  brass.  We  had  feather- 
beds  heaped  halfway  to  the  ceiling;  we  had  clothes 
presses  dusky  with  velvet  and  silk  and  fine  woollen.  The 
three  small  rooms  into  which  my  father  now  ushered 
us,  up  one  flight  of  stairs,  contained  only  the  necessary 
beds,  with  lean  mattresses;  a  few  wooden  chairs;  a  table 
or  two;  a  mysterious  iron  structure,  which  later  turned 
out  to  be  a  stove;  a  couple  of  unornamental  kerosene 
lamps;  and  a  scanty  array  of  cooking-utensils  and 
crockery.  And  yet  we  were  all  impressed  with  our  new 
home  and  its  furniture.  It  was  not  only  because  we  had 
just  passed  through  our  seven  lean  years,  cooking  in 
earthen  vessels,  eating  black  bread  on  holidays  and 
wearing  cotton;  it  was  chiefly  because  these  wooden 
chairs  and  tin  pans  were  American  chairs  and  pans  that 
they  shone  glorious  in  our  eyes.  And  if  there  was  any- 
thing lacking  for  comfort  or  decoration  we  expected  it  to 
be  presently  supplied  —  at  least,  we  children  did.  Per- 
haps my  mother  alone,  of  us  newcomers,  appreciated 
the  shabbiness  of  the  little  apartment,  and  realized  that 
for  her  there  was  as  yet  no  laying  down  of  the  burden  of 
poverty. 

Our  initiation  into  American  ways  began  with  the  first 
step  on  the  new  soil.   My  father  found  occasion  to  in- 


UNION  PLACE  (BOSTON)   WHERE  MY  NEW  HOME  WAITED  FOR  ME 


THE   PROMISED   LAND  185 

struct  or  correct  us  even  on  the  way  from  the  pier  to  Wall 
Street,  which  journey  we  made  crowded  together  in  a 
rickety  cab.  He  told  us  not  to  lean  out  of  the  windows, 
not  to  point,  and  explained  the  word  "greenhorn."  We 
did  not  want  to  be  "greenhorns,"  and  gave  the  strictest 
attention  to  my  father's  instructions.  I  do  not  know 
when  my  parents  found  opportunity  to  review  together 
the  history  of  Polotzk  in  the  three  years  past,  for  we 
children  had  no  patience  with  the  subject;  my  mother's 
narrative  was  constantly  interrupted  by  irrelevant 
questions,  interjections,  and  explanations. 

The  first  meal  was  an  object  lesson  of  much  variety. 
My  father  produced  several  kinds  of  food,  ready  to  eat, 
without  any  cooking,  from  little  tin  cans  that  had  print- 
ing all  over  them.  He  attempted  to  introduce  us  to  a 
queer,  slippery  kind  of  fruit,  which  he  called  "banana," 
but  had  to  give  it  up  for  the  time  being.  After  the  meal, 
he  had  better  luck  with  a  curious  piece  of  furniture  on 
runners,  which  he  called  "rocking-chair."  There  were 
five  of  us  newcomers,  and  we  found  five  different  ways  of 
getting  into  the  American  machine  of  perpetual  motion, 
and  as  many  ways  of  getting  out  of  it.  One  born  and 
bred  to  the  use  of  a  rocking-chair  cannot  imagine  how 
ludicrous  people  can  make  themselves  when  attempting 
to  use  it  for  the  first  time.  We  laughed  immoderately 
over  our  various  experiments  with  the  novelty,  which 
was  a  wholesome  way  of  letting  off  steam  after  the 
unusual  excitement  of  the  day. 

In  our  flat  we  did  not  think  of  such  a  thing  as  storing 
the  coal  in  the  bathtub.  There  was  no  bathtub.  So  in  the 
evening  of  the  first  day  my  father  conducted  us  to  the 
public  baths.  As  we  moved  along  in  a  little  procession,  I 
was  delighted  with  the  illumination  of  the  streets.  So 


186  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

many  lamps,  and  they  burned  until  morning,  my  father 
said,  and  so  people  did  not  need  to  carry  lanterns.  In 
America,  then,  everything  was  free,  as  we  had  heard  in 
Russia.  Light  was  free;  the  streets  were  as  bright  as  a 
synagogue  on  a  holy  day.  Music  was  free;  we  had  been 
serenaded,  to  our  gaping  delight,  by  a  brass  band  of 
many  pieces,  soon  after  our  installation  on  Union  Place. 

Education  was  free.  That  subject  my  father  had 
written  about  repeatedly,  as  comprising  his  chief  hope 
for  us  children,  the  essence  of  American  opportunity, 
the  treasure  that  no  thief  could  touch,  not  even  mis- 
fortune or  poverty.  It  was  the  one  thing  that  he  was 
able  to  promise  us  when  he  sent  for  us;  surer,  safer  than 
bread  or  shelter.  On  our  second  day  I  was  thrilled  with 
the  realization  of  what  this  freedom  of  education  meant. 
A  little  girl  from  across  the  alley  came  and  offered  to 
conduct  us  to  school.  My  father  was  out,  but  we  five 
between  us  had  a  few  words  of  English  by  this  time. 
We  knew  the  word  school.  We  understood.  This  child, 
who  had  never  seen  us  till  yesterday,  who  could  not 
pronounce  our  names,  who  was  not  much  better  dressed 
than  we,  was  able  to  offer  us  the  freedom  of  the  schools 
of  Boston!  No  application  made,  no  questions  asked, 
no  examinations,  rulings,  exclusions;  no  machinations, 
no  fees.  The  doors  stood  open  for  every  one  of  us.  The 
smallest  child  could  show  us  the  way. 

This  incident  impressed  me  more  than  anything  I 
had  heard  in  advance  of  the  freedom  of  education  in 
America.  It  was  a  concrete  proof  —  almost  the  thing 
itself.    One  had  to  experience  it  to  understand  it. 

It  was  a  great  disappointment  to  be  told  by  my  father 
that  we  were  not  to  enter  upon  our  school  career  at 
once.  It  was  too  near  the  end  of  the  term,  he  said,  and 


THE  PROMISED   LAND  187 

we  were  going  to  move  to  Crescent  Beach  in  a  week  or 
so.  We  had  to  wait  until  the  opening  of  the  schools  in 
September.  What  a  loss  of  precious  time  —  from  May 
till  September ! 

Not  that  the  time  was  really  lost.  Even  the  interval 
on  Union  Place  was  crowded  with  lessons  and  experi- 
ences. We  had  to  visit  the  stores  and  be  dressed  from 
head  to  foot  in  American  clothing;  we  had  to  learn 
the  mysteries  of  the  iron  stove,  the  washboard,  and  the 
speaking-tube;  we  had  to  learn  to  trade  with  the  fruit 
peddler  through  the  window,  and  not  to  be  afraid  of 
the  policeman;  and,  above  all,  we  had  to  learn  English. 

The  kind  people  who  assisted  us  in  these  important 
matters  form  a  group  by  themselves  in  the  gallery  of  my 
friends.  If  I  had  never  seen  them  from  those  early  days 
till  now,  I  should  still  have  remembered  them  with  grati- 
tude. When  I  enumerate  the  long  list  of  my  American 
teachers,  I  must  begin  with  those  who  came  to  us  on 
Wall  Street  and  taught  us  our  first  steps.  To  my 
mother,  in  her  perplexity  over  the  cookstove,  the  woman 
who  showed  her  how  to  make  the  fire  was  an  angel  of 
deliverance.  A  fairy  godmother  to  us  children  was  she 
who  led  us  to  a  wonderful  country  called  "uptown," 
where,  in  a  dazzlingly  beautiful  palace  called  a  "de- 
partment store,"  we  exchanged  our  hateful  homemade 
European  costumes,  which  pointed  us  out  as  "green- 
horns "  to  the  children  on  the  street,  for  real  American 
machine-made  garments,  and  issued  forth  glorified  in 
each  other's  eyes. 

With  our  despised  immigrant  clothing  we  shed  also 
our  impossible  Hebrew  names.  A  committee  of  our 
friends,  several  years  ahead  of  us  in  American  experi- 
ence, put  their  heads  together  and  concocted  American 


188  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

names  for  us  all.  Those  of  our  real  names  that  had 
no  pleasing  American  equivalents  they  ruthlessly  dis- 
carded, content  if  they  retained  the  initials.  My 
mother,  possessing  a  name  that  was  not  easily  trans- 
latable, was  punished  with  the  undignified  nickname 
of  Annie.  Fetchke,  Joseph,  and  Deborah  issued  as 
Frieda,  Joseph,  and  Dora,  respectively.  As  for  poor 
me,  I  was  simply  cheated.  The  name  they  gave  me  was 
hardly  new.  My  Hebrew  name  being  Maryashe  in  full, 
Mashke  for  short,  Russianized  into  Marya  (Mar-ya), 
my  friends  said  that  it  would  hold  good  in  English  as 
Mary;  which  was  very  disappointing,  as  I  longed  to 
possess  a  strange-sounding  American  name  like  the 
others. 

I  am  forgetting  the  consolation  I  had,  in  this  matter 
of  names,  from  the  use  of  my  surname,  which  I  have 
had  no  occasion  to  mention  until  now.  I  found  on  my 
arrival  that  my  father  was  "Mr.  Antin"  on  the  slightest 
provocation,  and  not,  as  in  Polotzk,  on  state  occasions 
alone.  And  so  I  was  "Mary  Antin,"  and  I  felt  very 
important  to  answer  to  such  a  dignified  title.  It  was 
just  like  America  that  even  plain  people  should  wear 
their  surnames  on  week  days. 

As  a  family  we  were  so  diligent  under  instruction,  so 
adaptable,  and  so  clever  in  hiding  our  deficiencies,  that 
when  we  made  the  journey  to  Crescent  Beach,  in  the 
wake  of  our  small  wagon-load  of  household  goods,  my 
father  had  very  little  occasion  to  admonish  us  on  the 
way,  and  I  am  sure  he  was  not  ashamed  of  us.  So  much 
we  had  achieved  toward  our  Americanization  during 
the  two  weeks  since  our  landing. 

Crescent  Beach  is  a  name  that  is  printed  in  very  small 
type  on  the  maps  of  the  environs  of  Boston,  but  a  life- 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  189 

size  strip  of  sand  curves  from  Winthrop  to  Lynn;  and 
that  is  historic  ground  in  the  annals  of  my  family.  The 
place  is  now  a  popular  resort  for  holiday  crowds,  and  is 
famous  under  the  name  of  Revere  Beach.  When  the 
reunited  Antins  made  their  stand  there,  however,  there 
were  no  boulevards,  no  stately  bath-houses,  no  hotels, 
no  gaudy  amusement  places,  no  illuminations,  no  show- 
men, no  tawdry  rabble.  There  was  only  the  bright 
clean  sweep  of  sand,  the  summer  sea,  and  the  summer 
sky.  At  high  tide  the  whole  Atlantic  rushed  in,  tossing 
the  seaweeds  in  his  mane;  at  low  tide  he  rushed  out, 
growling  and  gnashing  his  granite  teeth.  Between  tides 
a  baby  might  play  on  the  beach,  digging  with  pebbles 
and  shells,  till  it  lay  asleep  on  the  sand.  The  whole  sun 
shone  by  day,  troops  of  stars  by  night,  and  the  great 
moon  in  its  season. 

Into  this  grand  cycle  of  the  seaside  day  I  came  to  live 
and  learn  and  play.  A  few  people  came  with  me,  as  I 
have  already  intimated;  but  the  main  thing  was  that  I 
came  to  live  on  the  edge  of  the  sea  —  I,  who  had  spent 
my  life  inland,  believing  that  the  great  waters  of  the 
world  were  spread  out  before  me  in  the  Dvina.  My  idea 
of  the  human  world  had  grown  enormously  during  the 
long  journey;  my  idea  of  the  earth  had  expanded  with 
every  day  at  sea;  my  idea  of  the  world  outside  the  earth 
now  budded  and  swelled  during  my  prolonged  experi- 
ence of  the  wide  and  unobstructed  heavens. 

Not  that  I  got  any  inkling  of  the  conception  of  a 
multiple  world.  I  had  had  no  lessons  in  cosmogony,  and 
I  had  no  spontaneous  revelation  of  the  true  position  of 
the  earth  in  the  universe.  For  me,  as  for  my  fathers,  the 
sun  set  and  rose,  and  I  did  not  feel  the  earth  rushing 
through  space.  But  I  lay  stretched  out  in  the  sun,  my 


190  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

eyes  level  with  the  sea,  till  I  seemed  to  be  absorbed 
bodily  by  the  very  materials  of  the  world  around  me; 
till  I  could  not  feel  my  hand  as  separate  from  the  warm 
sand  in  which  it  was  buried.  Or  I  crouched  on  the  beach 
at  full  moon,  wondering,  wondering,  between  the  two 
splendors  of  the  sky  and  the  sea.  Or  I  ran  out  to  meet 
the  incoming  storm,  my  face  full  in  the  wind,  my  being 
a-tingle  with  an  awesome  delight  to  the  tips  of  my  fog- 
matted  locks  flying  behind;  and  stood  clinging  to  some 
stake  or  upturned  boat,  shaken  by  the  roar  and  rumble 
of  the  waves.  So  clinging,  I  pretended  that  I  was  in  dan- 
ger, and  was  deliciously  frightened;  I  held  on  with  both 
hands,  and  shook  my  head,  exulting  in  the  tumult  around 
me,  equally  ready  to  laugh  or  sob.  Or  else  I  sat,  on  the 
stillest  days,  with  my  back  to  the  sea,  not  looking  at  all, 
but  just  listening  to  the  rustle  of  the  waves  on  the  sand; 
not  thinking  at  all,  but  just  breathing  with  the  sea. 

Thus  courting  the  influence  of  sea  and  sky  and  vari- 
able weather,  I  was  bound  to  have  dreams,  hints, 
imaginings.  It  was  no  more  than  this,  perhaps:  that  the 
world  as  I  knew  it  was  not  large  enough  to  contain  all 
that  I  saw  and  felt;  that  the  thoughts  that  flashed 
through  my  mind,  not  half  understood,  unrelated  to  my 
utterable  thoughts,  concerned  something  for  which  I 
had  as  yet  no  name.  Every  imaginative  growing  child 
has  these  flashes  of  intuition,  especially  one  that  be- 
comes intimate  with  some  one  aspect  of  nature.  With 
me  it  was  the  growing  time,  that  idle  summer  by  the 
sea,  and  I  grew  all  the  faster  because  I  had  been  so 
cramped  before.  My  mind,  too,  had  so  recently  been 
worked  upon  by  the  impressive  experience  of  a  change 
of  country  that  I  was  more  than  commonly  alive  to 
impressions,  which  are  the  seeds  of  ideas. 


THE   PROMISED  LAND  191 

Let  no  one  suppose  that  I  spent  my  time  entirely,  or 
even  chiefly,  in  inspired  solitude.  By  far  the  best  part 
of  my  day  was  spent  in  play  —  frank,  hearty,  boisterous 
play,  such  as  comes  natural  to  American  children.  In 
Polotzk  I  had  already  begun  to  be  considered  too  old 
for  play,  excepting  set  games  or  organized  frolics.  Here 
I  found  myself  included  with  children  who  still  played, 
and  I  willingly  returned  to  childhood.  There  were  plenty 
of  playfellows.  My  father's  energetic  little  partner  had 
a  little  wife  and  a  large  family.  He  kept  the  min  the 
little  cottage  next  to  ours;  and  that  the  shanty  sur- 
vived the  tumultuous  presence  of  that  brood  is  a  wonder 
to  me  to-day.  The  young  Wilners  included  an  assort- 
ment of  boys,  girls,  and  twins,  of  every  possible  variety 
of  age,  size,  disposition,  and  sex.  They  swarmed  in  and 
out  of  the  cottage  all  day  long,  wearing  the  door-sill 
hollow,  and  trampling  the  ground  to  powder.  They 
swung  out  of  windows  like  monkeys,  slid  up  the  roof 
like  flies,  and  shot  out  of  trees  like  fowls.  Even  a  small 
person  like  me  could  n't  go  anywhere  without  being  run 
over  by  a  Wilner;  and  I  could  never  tell  which  Wilner  it 
was  because  none  of  them  ever  stood  still  long  enough  to 
be  identified;  and  also  because  I  suspected  that  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  interchanging  conspicuous  articles 
of  clothing,  which  was  very  confusing. 

You  would  suppose  that  the  little  mother  must  have 
been  utterly  lost,  bewildered,  trodden  down  in  this  horde 
of  urchins;  but  you  are  mistaken.  Mrs.  Wilner  was  a 
positively  majestic  little  person.  She  ruled  her  brood 
with  the  utmost  coolness  and  strictness.  She  had  even 
the  biggest  boy  under  her  thumb,  frequently  under  her 
palm.  If  they  enjoyed  the  wildest  freedom  outdoors,  in- 
doors the  young  Wilners  lived  by  the  clock.  And  so  at 


192  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

five  o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  seven  days  in  the  week, 
my  father's  partner's  children  could  be  seen  in  two  long 
rows  around  the  supper  table.  You  could  tell  them 
apart  on  this  occasion,  because  they  all  had  their  faces 
washed.  And  this  is  the  time  to  count  them:  there  are 
twelve  little  Wilners  at  table. 

I  managed  to  retain  my  identity  in  this  multitude 
somehow,  and  while  I  was  very  much  impressed  with 
their  numbers,  I  even  dared  to  pick  and  choose  my 
friends  among  the  Wilners.  One  or  two  of  the  smaller 
boys  I  liked  best  of  all,  for  a  game  of  hide-and-seek  or  a 
frolic  on  the  beach.  We  played  in  the  water  like  ducks, 
never  taking  the  trouble  to  get  dry.  One  day  I  waded 
out  with  one  of  the  boys,  to  see  which  of  us  dared  go 
farthest.  The  tide  was  extremely  low,  and  we  had  not 
wet  our  knees  when  we  began  to  look  back  to  see  if  fa- 
miliar objects  were  still  in  sight.  I  thought  we  had  been 
wading  for  hours,  and  still  the  water  was  so  shallow  and 
quiet.  My  companion  was  marching  straight  ahead,  so 
I  did  the  same.  Suddenly  a  swell  lifted  us  almost  off  our 
feet,  and  we  clutched  at  each  other  simultaneously. 
There  was  a  lesser  swell,  and  little  waves  began  to  run, 
and  a  sigh  went  up  from  the  sea.  The  tide  was  turning 
—  perhaps  a  storm  was  on  the  way  —  and  we  were 
miles,  dreadful  miles  from  dry  land. 

Boy  and  girl  turned  without  a  word,  four  determined 
bare  legs  ploughing  through  the  water,  four  scared  eyes 
straining  toward  the  land.  Through  an  eternity  of  toil 
and  fear  they  kept  dumbly  on,  death  at  their  heels, 
pride  still  in  their  hearts.  At  last  they  reach  high-water 
mark  —  six  hours  before  full  tide. 

Each  has  seen  the  other  afraid,  and  each  rejoices  in 
the  knowledge.  But  only  the  boy  is  sure  of  his  tongue. 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  193 

"You  was  scared,  war  n't  you?"  he  taunts. 

The  girl  understands  so  much,  and  is  able  to  reply :  — 

"You  can  schwimmen,  I  not." 

"Betcher  life  I  can  schwimmen,"  the  other  mocks. 

And  the  girl  walks  off,  angry  and  hurt. 

"An'  I  can  walk  on  my  hands,"  the  tormentor  calls 
after  her.   "Say,  you  greenhorn,  why  don'tcher  look?" 

The  girl  keeps  straight  on,  vowing  that  she  would 
never  walk  with  that  rude  boy  again,  neither  by  land 
nor  sea,  not  even  though  the  waters  should  part  at  his 
bidding. 

I  am  forgetting  the  more  serious  business  which  had 
brought  us  to  Crescent  Beach.  While  we  children  dis- 
ported ourselves  like  mermaids  and  mermen  in  the  surf, 
our  respective  fathers  dispensed  cold  lemonade,  hot 
peanuts,  and  pink  popcorn,  and  piled  up  our  respect- 
ive fortunes,  nickel  by  nickel,  penny  by  penny.  I  was 
very  proud  of  my  connection  with  the  public  life  of  the 
beach.  I  admired  greatly  our  shining  soda  fountain,  the 
rows  of  sparkling  glasses,  the  pyramids  of  oranges,  the 
sausage  chains,  the  neat  white  counter,  and  the  bright 
array  of  tin  spoons.  It  seemed  to  me  that  none  of  the 
other  refreshment  stands  on  the  beach  —  there  were  a 
few  —  were  half  so  attractive  as  ours.  I  thought  my 
father  looked  very  well  in  a  long  white  apron  and  shirt 
sleeves.  He  dished  out  ice  cream  with  enthusiasm,  so  I 
supposed  he  was  getting  rich.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
to  compare  his  present  occupation  with  the  position  for 
which  he  had  been  originally  destined;  or  if  I  thought 
about  it,  I  was  just  as  well  content,  for  by  this  time  I  had 
by  heart  my  father's  saying,  "America  is  not  Polotzk." 
All  occupations  were  respectable,  all  men  were  equal,  in 
America. 


194  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

If  I  admired  the  soda  fountain  and  the  sausage  chains, 
I  almost  worshipped  the  partner,  Mr.  Wilner.  I  was  con- 
tent to  stand  for  an  hour  at  a  time  watching  him  make 
potato  chips.  In  his  cook's  cap  and  apron,  with  a  ladle 
in  his  hand  and  a  smile  on  his  face,  he  moved  about 
with  the  greatest  agility,  whisking  his  raw  materials 
out  of  nowhere,  dipping  into  his  bubbling  kettle  with  a 
flourish,  and  bringing  forth  the  finished  product  with  a 
caper.  Such  potato  chips  were  not  to  be  had  anywhere 
else  on  Crescent  Beach.  Thin  as  tissue  paper,  crisp  as 
dry  snow,  and  salt  as  the  sea  —  such  thirst-producing, 
lemonade-selling,  nickel-bringing  potato  chips  only  Mr. 
Wilner  could  make.  On  holidays,  when  dozens  of  family 
parties  came  out  by  every  train  from  town,  he  could 
hardly  keep  up  with  the  demand  for  his  potato  chips. 
And  with  a  waiting  crowd  around  him  our  partner  was 
at  his  best.  He  was  as  voluble  as  he  was  skilful,  and  as 
witty  as  he  was  voluble;  at  least  so  I  guessed  from  the 
laughter  that  frequently  drowned  his  voice.  I  could  not 
understand  his  jokes,  but  if  I  could  get  near  enough  to 
watch  his  lips  and  his  smile  and  his  merry  eyes,  I  was 
happy.  That  any  one  could  talk  so  fast,  and  in  English, 
was  marvel  enough,  but  that  this  prodigy  should  belong 
to  our  establishment  was  a  fact  to  thrill  me.  I  had  never 
seen  anything  like  Mr.  Wilner,  except  a  wedding  jester; 
but  then  he  spoke  common  Yiddish.  So  proud  was  I  of 
the  talent  and  good  taste  displayed  at  our  stand  that  if 
my  father  beckoned  to  me  in  the  crowd  and  sent  me  on 
an  errand,  I  hoped  the  people  noticed  that  I,  too,  was 
connected  with  the  establishment. 

And  all  this  splendor  and  glory  and  distinction  came 
to  a  sudden  end.  There  was  some  trouble  about  a 
license  —  some  fee  or  fine  —  there  was  a  storm  in  the 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  195 

night  that  damaged  the  soda  fountain  and  other  fix- 
tures —  there  was  talk  and  consultation  between  the 
houses  of  Antin  and  Wilner  —  and  the  promising  part- 
nership was  dissolved.  No  more  would  the  merry  part- 
ner gather  the  crowd  on  the  beach;  no  more  would  the 
twelve  young  Wilners  gambol  like  mermen  and  mer- 
maids in  the  surf.  And  the  less  numerous  tribe  of  Antin 
must  also  say  farewell  to  the  jolly  seaside  life;  for  men  in 
such  humble  business  as  my  father's  carry  their  families, 
along  with  their  other  earthly  goods,  wherever  they  go, 
after  the  manner  of  the  gypsies.  We  had  driven  a  feeble 
stake  into  the  sand.  The  jealous  Atlantic,  in  conspiracy 
with  the  Sunday  law,  had  torn  it  out.  We  must  seek 
our  luck  elsewhere. 

In  Polotzk  we  had  supposed  that  "America"  was 
practically  synonymous  with  "Boston."  When  we 
landed  in  Boston,  the  horizon  was  pushed  back,  and  we 
annexed  Crescent  Beach.  And  now,  espying  other  lands 
of  promise,  we  took  possession  of  the  province  of  Chel- 
sea, in  the  name  of  our  necessity. 

In  Chelsea,  as  in  Boston,  we  made  our  stand  in  the 
wrong  end  of  the  town.  Arlington  Street  was  inhabited 
by  poor  Jews,  poor  Negroes,  and  a  sprinkling  of  poor 
Irish.  The  side  streets  leading  from  it  were  occupied  by 
more  poor  Jews  and  Negroes.  It  was  a  proper  locality 
for  a  man  without  capital  to  do  business.  My  father 
rented  a  tenement  with  a  store  in  the  basement.  He 
put  in  a  few  barrels  of  flour  and  of  sugar,  a  few  boxes 
of  crackers,  a  few  gallons  of  kerosene,  an  assortment  of 
soap  of  the  "save  the  coupon"  brands;  in  the  cellar,  a 
few  barrels  of  potatoes,  and  a  pyramid  of  kindling-wood; 
in  the  showcase,  an  alluring  display  of  penny  candy.  He 
put  out  his  sign,  with  a  gilt- lettered  warning  of  "Strictly 


196  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

Cash,"  and  proceeded  to  give  credit  indiscriminately. 
That  was  the  regular  way  to  do  business  on  Arlington 
Street.  My  father,  in  his  three  years'  apprenticeship, 
had  learned  the  tricks  of  many  trades.  He  knew  when 
and  how  to  "bluff."  The  legend  of  "Strictly  Cash"  was 
a  protection  against  notoriously  irresponsible  customers; 
while  none  of  the  "good"  customers,  who  had  a  record 
for  paying  regularly  on  Saturday,  hesitated  to  enter  the 
store  with  empty  purses. 

If  my  father  knew  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  my  mother 
could  be  counted  on  to  throw  all  her  talent  and  tact  into 
the  business.  Of  course  she  had  no  English  yet,  but  as 
she  could  perform  the  acts  of  weighing,  measuring,  and 
mental  computation  of  fractions  mechanically,  she  was 
able  to  give  her  whole  attention  to  the  dark  mysteries  of 
the  language,  as  intercourse  with  her  customers  gave 
her  opportunity.  In  this  she  made  such  rapid  progress 
that  she  soon  lost  all  sense  of  disadvantage,  and  con- 
ducted herself  behind  the  counter  very  much  as  if  she 
were  back  in  her  old  store  in  Polotzk.  It  was  far  more 
cosey  than  Polotzk  —  at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  me;  for 
behind  the  store  was  the  kitchen,  where,  in  the  intervals 
of  slack  trade,  she  did  her  cooking  and  washing.  Arling- 
ton Street  customers  were  used  to  waiting  while  the 
storekeeper  salted  the  soup  or  rescued  a  loaf  from  the 
oven. 

Once  more  Fortune  favored  my  family  with  a  thin 
little  smile,  and  my  father,  in  reply  to  a  friendly  inquiry, 
would  say,  "One  makes  a  living,"  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  that  added  "but  nothing  to  boast  of."  It  was 
characteristic  of  my  attitude  toward  bread-and-butter 
matters  that  this  contented  me,  and  I  felt  free  to  devote 
myself  to  the  conquest  of  my  new  world.  Looking  back 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  197 

to  those  critical  first  years,  I  see  myself  always  behaving 
like  a  child  let  loose  in  a  garden  to  play  and  dig  and 
chase  the  butterflies.  Occasionally,  indeed,  I  was  stung 
by  the  wasp  of  family  trouble;  but  I  knew  a  healing 
ointment  —  my  faith  in  America.  My  father  had  come 
to  America  to  make  a  living.  America,  which  was  free 
and  fair  and  kind,  must  presently  yield  him  what  he 
sought.  I  had  come  to  America  to  see  a  new  world,  and  I 
followed  my  own  ends  with  the  utmost  assiduity;  only, 
as  I  ran  out  to  explore,  I  would  look  back  to  see  if  my 
house  were  in  order  behind  me  —  if  my  family  still  kept 
its  head  above  water. 

In  after  years,  when  I  passed  as  an  American  among 
Americans,  if  I  was  suddenly  made  aware  of  the  past 
that  lay  forgotten,  —  if  a  letter  from  Russia,  or  a  para- 
graph in  the  newspaper,  or  a  conversation  overheard 
in  the  street-car,  suddenly  reminded  me  of  what  I 
might  have  been,  —  I  thought  it  miracle  enough  that 
I,  Mashke,  the  granddaughter  of  Raphael  the  Russian, 
born  to  a  humble  destiny,  should  be  at  home  in  an 
American  metropolis,  be  free  to  fashion  my  own  life,  and 
should  dream  my  dreams  in  English  phrases.  But  in  the 
beginning  my  admiration  was  spent  on  more  concrete 
embodiments  of  the  splendors  of  America;  such  as  fine 
houses,  gay  shops,  electric  engines  and  apparatus,  public 
buildings,  illuminations,  and  parades.  My  early  letters 
to  my  Russian  friends  were  filled  with  boastful  descrip- 
tions of  these  glories  of  my  new  country.  No  native 
citizen  of  Chelsea  took  such  pride  and  delight  in  its 
institutions  as  I  did.  It  required  no  fife  and  drum  corps, 
no  Fourth  of  July  procession,  to  set  me  tingling  with 
patriotism.  Even  the  common  agents  and  instruments 
of  municipal  life,  such  as  the  letter  carrier  and  the  fire 


198  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

engine,  I  regarded  with  a  measure  of  respect.  I  know 
what  I  thought  of  people  who  said  that  Chelsea  was  a 
very  small,  dull,  unaspiring  town,  with  no  discernible 
excuse  for  a  separate  name  or  existence. 

The  apex  of  my  civic  pride  and  personal  contentment 
was  reached  on  the  bright  September  morning  when  I 
entered  the  public  school.  That  day  I  must  always 
remember,  even  if  I  live  to  be  so  old  that  I  cannot  tell 
my  name.  To  most  people  their  first  day  at  school  is  a 
memorable  occasion.  In  my  case  the  importance  of  the 
day  was  a  hundred  times  magnified,  on  account  of  the 
years  I  had  waited,  the  road  I  had  come,  and  the  con- 
scious ambitions  I  entertained. 

I  am  wearily  aware  that  I  am  speaking  in  extreme  fig- 
ures, in  superlatives.  I  wish  I  knew  some  other  way  to 
render  the  mental  life  of  the  immigrant  child  of  reason- 
ing age.  I  may  have  been  ever  so  much  an  exception  in 
acuteness  of  observation,  powers  of  comparison,  and  ab- 
normal self -consciousness ;  none  the  less  were  my  thoughts 
and  conduct  typical  of  the  attitude  of  the  intelligent  im- 
migrant child  toward  American  institutions.  And  what 
the  child  thinks  and  feels  is  a  reflection  of  the  hopes,  de- 
sires, and  purposes  of  the  parents  who  brought  him  over- 
seas, no  matter  how  precocious  and  independent  the 
child  may  be.  Your  immigrant  inspectors  will  tell  you 
what  poverty  the  foreigner  brings  in  his  baggage,  what 
want  in  his  pockets.  Let  the  overgrown  boy  of  twelve, 
reverently  drawing  his  letters  in  the  baby  class,  testify  to 
the  noble  dreams  and  high  ideals  that  may  be  hidden 
beneath  the  greasy  caftan  of  the  immigrant.  Speaking 
for  the  Jews,  at  least,  I  know  I  am  safe  in  inviting  such 
an  investigation. 

Who  were  my  companions  on  my  first  day  at  school? 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  199 

Whose  hand  was  in  mine,  as  I  stood,  overcome  with 
awe,  by  the  teacher's  desk,  and  whispered  my  name  as 
my  father  prompted?  Was  it  Frieda's  steady,  capable 
hand?  Was  it  her  loyal  heart  that  throbbed,  beat  for 
beat  with  mine,  as  it  had  done  through  all  our  child- 
ish adventures?  Frieda's  heart  did  throb  that  day,  but 
not  with  my  emotions.  My  heart  pulsed  with  joy  and 
pride  and  ambition;  in  her  heart  longing  fought  with 
abnegation.  For  I  was  led  to  the  schoolroom,  with  its 
sunshine  and  its  singing  and  the  teacher's  cheery  smile; 
while  she  was  led  to  the  workshop,  with  its  foul  air, 
care-lined  faces,  and  the  foreman's  stern  command.  Our 
going  to  school  was  the  fulfilment  of  my  father's  best 
promises  to  us,  and  Frieda's  share  in  it  was  to  fashion 
and  fit  the  calico  frocks  in  which  the  baby  sister  and  I 
made  our  first  appearance  in  a  public  schoolroom. 

I  remember  to  this  day  the  gray  pattern  of  the  calico, 
so  affectionately  did  I  regard  it  as  it  hung  upon  the 
wall  —  my  consecration  robe  awaiting  the  beatific  day. 
And  Frieda,  I  am  sure,  remembers  it,  too,  so  long- 
ingly did  she  regard  it  as  the  crisp,  starchy  breadths  of 
it  slid  between  her  fingers.  But  whatever  were  her 
longings,  she  said  nothing  of  them;  she  bent  over  the 
sewing-machine  humming  an  Old-World  melody.  In 
every  straight,  smooth  seam,  perhaps,  she  tucked  away 
some  lingering  impulse  of  childhood;  but  she  matched 
the  scrolls  and  flowers  with  the  utmost  care.  If  a  sud- 
den shock  of  rebellion  made  her  straighten  up  for  an 
instant,  the  next  instant  she  was  bending  to  adjust  a 
ruffle  to  the  best  advantage.  And  when  the  momen- 
tous day  arrived,  and  the  little  sister  and  I  stood  up 
to  be  arrayed,  it  was  Frieda  herself  who  patted  ,and 
smoothed  my  stiff  new  calico;  who  made  me  turn  round 


200  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

and  round,  to  see  that  I  was  perfect;  who  stooped  to 
pull  out  a  disfiguring  basting-thread.  If  there  was  any- 
thing in  her  heart  besides  sisterly  love  and  pride  and 
good- will,  as  we  parted  that  morning,  it  was  a  sense  of 
loss  and  a  woman's  acquiescence  in  her  fate;  for  we 
had  been  close  friends,  and  now  our  ways  would  lie 
apart.  Longing  she  felt,  but  no  envy.  She  did  not 
grudge  me  what  she  was  denied.  Until  that  morning  we 
had  been  children  together,  but  now,  at  the  fiat  of  her 
destiny,  she  became  a  woman,  with  all  a  woman's  cares; 
whilst  I,  so  little  younger  than  she,  was  bidden  to  dance 
at  the  May  festival  of  untroubled  childhood. 

I  wish,  for  my  comfort,  that  I  could  say  that  I  had 
some  notion  of  the  difference  in  our  lots,  some  sense  of  the 
injustice  to  her,  of  the  indulgence  to  me.  I  wish  I  could 
even  say  that  I  gave  serious  thought  to  the  matter. 
There  had  always  been  a  distinction  between  us  rather 
out  of  proportion  to  the  difference  in  our  years.  Her 
good  health  and  domestic  instincts  had  made  it  natural 
for  her  to  become  my  mother's  right  hand,  in  the  years 
preceding  the  emigration,  when  there  were  no  more 
servants  or  dependents.  Then  there  was  the  family 
tradition  that  Mary  was  the  quicker,  the  brighter  of 
the  two,  and  that  hers  could  be  no  common  lot.  Frieda 
was  relied  upon  for  help,  and  her  sister  for  glory.  And 
when  I  failed  as  a  milliner's  apprentice,  while  Frieda 
made  excellent  progress  at  the  dressmaker's,  our  fates, 
indeed,  were  sealed.  It  was  understood,  even  before  we 
reached  Boston,  that  she  would  go  to  work  and  I  to 
school.  In  view  of  the  family  prejudices,  it  was  the 
inevitable  course.  No  injustice  was  intended.  My 
father  sent  us  hand  in  hand  to  school,  before  he  had  ever 
thought  of  America.  If,  in  America,  he  had  been  able 


THE   PROMISED   LAND  201 

to  support  his  family  unaided,  it  would  have  been  the 
culmination  of  his  best  hopes  to  see  all  his  children  at 
school,  with  equal  advantages  at  home.  But  when  he 
had  done  his  best,  and  was  still  unable  to  provide  even 
bread  and  shelter  for  us  all,  he  was  compelled  to  make 
us  children  self-supporting  as  fast  as  it  was  practicable. 
There  was  no  choosing  possible;  Frieda  was  the  oldest, 
the  strongest,  the  best  prepared,  and  the  only  one  who 
was  of  legal  age  to  be  put  to  work. 

My  father  has  nothing  to  answer  for.  He  divided  the 
world  between  his  children  in  accordance  with  the  laws 
of  the  country  and  the  compulsion  of  his  circumstances. 
I  have  no  need  of  defending  him.  It  is  myself  that  I 
would  like  to  defend,  and  I  cannot.  I  remember  that 
I  accepted  the  arrangements  made  for  my  sister  and 
me  without  much  reflection,  and  everything  that  was 
planned  for  my  advantage  I  took  as  a  matter  of  course. 
I  was  no  heartless  monster,  but  a  decidedly  self-centred 
child.  If  my  sister  had  seemed  unhappy  it  would  have 
troubled  me;  but  I  am  ashamed  to  recall  that  I  did  not 
consider  how  little  it  was  that  contented  her.  I  was 
so  preoccupied  with  my  own  happiness  that  I  did  not 
half  perceive  the  splendid  devotion  of  her  attitude 
towards  me,  the  sweetness  of  her  joy  in  my  good  luck. 
She  not  only  stood  by  approvingly  when  I  was  helped 
to  everything;  she  cheerfully  waited  on  me  herself. 
And  I  took  everything  from  her  hand  as  if  it  were  my 
due. 

The  two  of  us  stood  a  moment  in  the  doorway  of  the 
tenement  house  on  Arlington  Street,  that  wonderful 
September  morning  when  I  first  went  to  school.  It  was 
I  that  ran  away,  on  winged  feet  of  joy  and  expectation; 
it  was  she  whose  feet  were  bound  in  the  treadmill  of 


202  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

daily  toil.  And  I  was  so  blind  that  I  did  not  see  that  the 
glory  lay  on  her,  and  not  on  me. 

Father  himself  conducted  us  to  school.  He  would  not 
have  delegated  that  mission  to  the  President  of  the 
United  States.  He  had  awaited  the  day  with  impatience 
equal  to  mine,  and  the  visions  he  saw  as  he  hurried  us 
over  the  sun-flecked  pavements  transcended  all  my 
dreams.  Almost  his  first  act  on  landing  on  American 
soil,  three  years  before,  had  been  his  application  for 
naturalization.  He  had  taken  the  remaining  steps  in  the 
process  with  eager  promptness,  and  at  the  earliest  mo- 
ment allowed  by  the  law,  he  became  a  citizen  of  the 
United  States.  It  is  true  that  he  had  left  home  in  search 
of  bread  for  his  hungry  family,  but  he  went  blessing  the 
necessity  that  drove  him  to  America.  The  boasted  free- 
dom of  the  New  World  meant  to  him  far  more  than  the 
right  to  reside,  travel,  and  work  wherever  he  pleased; 
it  meant  the  freedom  to  speak  his  thoughts,  to  throw 
off  the  shackles  of  superstition,  to  test  his  own  fate, 
unhindered  by  political  or  religious  tyranny.  He  was 
only  a  young  man  when  he  landed  —  thirty-two;  and 
most  of  his  life  he  had  been  held  in  leading-strings.  He 
was  hungry  for  his  untasted  manhood. 

Three  years  passed  in  sordid  struggle  and  disappoint- 
ment. He  was  not  prepared  to  make  a  living  even  in 
America,  where  the  day  laborer  eats  wheat  instead  of 
rye.  Apparently  the  American  flag  could  not  protect 
him  against  the  pursuing  Nemesis  of  his  limitations;  he 
must  expiate  the  sins  of  his  fathers  who  slept  across 
the  seas.  He  had  been  endowed  at  birth  with  a  poor 
constitution,  a  nervous,  restless  temperament,  and  an 
abundance  of  hindering  prejudices.  In  his  boyhood  his 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  203 

body  was  starved,  that  his  mind  might  be  stuffed  with 
useless  learning.  In  his  youth  this  dearly  gotten  learning 
was  sold,  and  the  price  was  the  bread  and  salt  which  he 
had  not  been  trained  to  earn  for  himself.  Under  the 
wedding  canopy  he  was  bound  for  life  to  a  girl  whose 
features  were  still  strange  to  him;  and  he  was  bidden 
to  multiply  himself,  that  sacred  learning  might  be  per- 
petuated in  his  sons,  to  the  glory  of  the  God  of  his 
fathers.  All  this  while  he  had  been  led  about  as  a 
creature  without  a  will,  a  chattel,  an  instrument.  In 
his  maturity  he  awoke,  and  found  himself  poor  in  health, 
poor  in  purse,  poor  in  useful  knowledge,  and  hampered 
on  all  sides.  At  the  first  nod  of  opportunity  he  broke 
away  from  his  prison,  and  strove  to  atone  for  his  wasted 
youth  by  a  life  of  useful  labor;  while  at  the  same  time  he 
sought  to  lighten  the  gloom  of  his  narrow  scholarship 
by  freely  partaking  of  modern  ideas.  But  his  utmost 
endeavor  still  left  him  far  from  his  goal.  In  business, 
nothing  prospered  with  him.  Some  fault  of  hand  or 
mind  or  temperament  led  him  to  failure  where  other 
men  found  success.  Wherever  the  blame  for  his  dis- 
abilities be  placed,  he  reaped  their  bitter  fruit.  "  Give 
me  bread!"  he  cried  to  America.  "What  will  you  do  to 
earn  it?"  the  challenge  came  back.  And  he  found  that 
he  was  master  of  no  art,  of  no  trade;  that  even  his 
precious  learning  was  of  no  avail,  because  he  had  only 
the  most  antiquated  methods  of  communicating  it. 

So  in  his  primary  quest  he  had  failed.  There  was  left 
him  the  compensation  of  intellectual  freedom.  That  he 
sought  to  realize  in  every  possible  way.  He  had  very 
little  opportunity  to  prosecute  his  education,  which,  in 
truth,  had  never  been  begun.  His  struggle  for  a  bare 
living  left  him  no  time  to  take  advantage  of  the  public 


204  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

evening  school;  but  he  lost  nothing  of  what  was  to  be 
learned  through  reading,  through  attendance  at  public 
meetings,  through  exercising  the  rights  of  citizenship. 
Even  here  he  was  hindered  by  a  natural  inability  to 
acquire  the  English  language.  In  time,  indeed,  he 
learned  to  read,  to  follow  a  conversation  or  lecture;  but 
he  never  learned  to  write  correctly,  and  his  pronun- 
ciation remains  extremely  foreign  to  this  day. 

If  education,  culture,  the  higher  life  were  shining 
things  to  be  worshipped  from  afar,  he  had  still  a  means 
left  whereby  he  could  draw  one  step  nearer  to  them.  He 
could  send  his  children  to  school,  to  learn  all  those 
things  that  he  knew  by  fame  to  be  desirable.  The  com- 
mon school,  at  least,  perhaps  high  school;  for  one  or 
two,  perhaps  even  college !  His  children  should  be  stu- 
dents, should  fill  his  house  with  books  and  intellect- 
ual company;  and  thus  he  would  walk  by  proxy  in  the 
Elysian  Fields  of  liberal  learning.  As  for  the  children 
themselves,  he  knew  no  surer  way  to  their  advancement 
and  happiness. 

So  it  was  with  a  heart  full  of  longing  and  hope  that 
my  father  led  us  to  school  on  that  first  day.  He  took 
long  strides  in  his  eagerness,  the  rest  of  us  running  and 
hopping  to  keep  up. 

At  last  the  four  of  us  stood  around  the  teacher's 
desk;  and  my  father,  in  his  impossible  English,  gave 
us  over  in  her  charge,  with  some  broken  word  of  his 
hopes  for  us  that  his  swelling  heart  could  no  longer 
contain.  I  venture  to  say  that  Miss  Nixon  was  struck 
by  something  uncommon  in  the  group  we  made,  some- 
thing outside  of  Semitic  features  and  the  abashed  man- 
ner of  the  alien.  My  little  sister  was  as  pretty  as  a 
doll,  with  her  clear  pink-and-white  face,  short  golden 


THE  PROMISED   LAND  205 

curls,  and  eyes  like  blue  violets  when  you  caught  them 
looking  up.  My  brother  might  have  been  a  girl,  too, 
with  his  cherubic  contours  of  face,  rich  red  color,  glossy 
black  hair,  and  fine  eyebrows.  Whatever  secret  fears 
were  in  his  heart,  remembering  his  former  teachers,  who 
had  taught  with  the  rod,  he  stood  up  straight  and  un- 
cringing  before  the  American  teacher,  his  cap  respect- 
fully doffed.  Next  to  him  stood  a  starved-looking  girl 
with  eyes  ready  to  pop  out,  and  short  dark  curls  that 
would  not  have  made  much  of  a  wig  for  a  Jewish  bride. 
All  three  children  carried  themselves  rather  better 
than  the  common  run  of  "green"  pupils  that  were 
brought  to  Miss  Nixon.  But  the  figure  that  challenged 
attention  to  the  group  was  the  tall,  straight  father,  with 
his  earnest  face  and  fine  forehead,  nervous  hands  elo- 
quent in  gesture,  and  a  voice  full  of  feeling.  This  for- 
eigner, who  brought  his  children  to  school  as  if  it  were 
an  act  of  consecration,  who  regarded  the  teacher  of  the 
primer  class  with  reverence,  who  spoke  of  visions,  like  a 
man  inspired,  in  a  common  schoolroom,  was  not  like 
other  aliens,  who  brought  their  children  in  dull  obedience 
to  the  law;  was  not  like  the  native  fathers,  who  brought 
their  unmanageable  boys,  glad  to  be  relieved  of  their 
care.  I  think  Miss  Nixon  guessed  what  my  father's  best 
English  could  not  convey.  I  think  she  divined  that  by 
the  simple  act  of  delivering  our  school  certificates  to  her 
he  took  possession  of  America. 


CHAPTER  X 

INITIATION 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  refer  to  voluminous  school 
statistics  to  see  just  how  many  "green"  pupils  entered 
school  last  September,  not  knowing  the  days  of  the 
week  in  English,  who  next  February  will  be  declaiming 
patriotic  verses  in  honor  of  George  Washington  and 
Abraham  Lincoln,  with  a  foreign  accent,  indeed,  but 
with  plenty  of  enthusiasm.  It  is  enough  to  know  that 
this  hundred-fold  miracle  is  common  to  the  schools  in 
every  part  of  the  United  States  where  immigrants  are 
received.  And  if  I  was  one  of  Chelsea's  hundred  in  1894, 
it  was  only  to  be  expected,  since  I  was  one  of  the  older 
of  the  "green"  children,  and  had  had  a  start  in  my 
irregular  schooling  in  Russia,  and  was  carried  along  by 
a  tremendous  desire  to  learn,  and  had  my  family  to 
cheer  me  on. 

I  was  not  a  bit  too  large  for  my  little  chair  and  desk  in 
the  baby  class,  but  my  mind,  of  course,  was  too  mature 
by  six  or  seven  years  for  the  work.  So  as  soon  as  I  could 
understand  what  the  teacher  said  in  class,  I  was  ad- 
vanced to  the  second  grade.  This  was  within  a  week 
after  Miss  Nixon  took  me  in  hand.  But  I  do  not  mean 
to  give  my  dear  teacher  all  the  credit  for  my  rapid  pro- 
gress, nor  even  half  the  credit.  I  shall  divide  it  with  her 
on  behalf  of  my  race  and  my  family.  I  was  Jew  enough 
to  have  an  aptitude  for  language  in  general,  and  to  bend 
my  mind  earnestly  to  my  task;  I  was  An  tin  enough  to 
read  each  lesson  with  my  heart,  which  gave  me  an  ink- 


INITIATION  207 

ling  of  what  was  coming  next,  and  so  carried  me  along 
by  leaps  and  bounds.  As  for  the  teacher,  she  could  best 
explain  what  theory  she  followed  in  teaching  us  foreign- 
ers to  read.  I  can  only  describe  the  method,  which  was 
so  simple  that  I  wish  holiness  could  be  taught  in  the 
same  way. 

There  were  about  half  a  dozen  of  us  beginners  in 
English,  in  age  from  six  to  fifteen.  Miss  Nixon  made  a 
special  class  of  us,  and  aided  us  so  skilfully  and  earn- 
estly in  our  endeavors  to  "see-a-cat,"  and  "hear-a-dog- 
bark,"  and  "look-at-the-hen,"  that  we  turned  over  page 
after  page  of  the  ravishing  history,  eager  to  find  out  how 
the  common  world  looked,  smelled,  and  tasted  in  the 
strange  speech.  The  teacher  knew  just  when  to  let  us 
help  each  other  out  with  a  word  in  our  own  tongue,  —  it 
happened  that  we  were  all  Jews,  —  and  so,  working  all 
together,  we  actually  covered  more  ground  in  a  lesson 
than  the  native  classes,  composed  entirely  of  the  little 
tots. 

But  we  stuck  —  stuck  fast  —  at  the  definite  article; 
and  sometimes  the  lesson  resolved  itself  into  a  species  of 
lingual  gymnastics,  in  which  we  all  looked  as  if  we  meant 
to  bite  our  tongues  off.  Miss  Nixon  was  pretty,  and  she 
must  have  looked  well  with  her  white  teeth  showing  in 
the  act;  but  at  the  time  I  was  too  solemnly  occupied  to 
admire  her  looks.  I  did  take  great  pleasure  in  her  smile 
of  approval,  whenever  I  pronounced  well;  and  her  pa- 
tience and  perseverance  in  struggling  with  us  over  that 
thick  little  word  are  becoming  to  her  even  now,  after 
fifteen  years.  It  is  not  her  fault  if  any  of  us  to-day  give 
a  buzzing  sound  to  the  dreadful  English  th. 

I  shall  never  have  a  better  opportunity  to  make  public 
declaration  of  my  love  for  the  English  language.    I  am 


208  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

glad  that  American  history  runs,  chapter  for  chapter, 
the  way  it  does;  for  thus  America  came  to  be  the  country 
I  love  so  dearly.  I  am  glad,  most  of  all,  that  the  Ameri- 
cans began  by  being  Englishmen,  for  thus  did  I  come 
to  inherit  this  beautiful  language  in  which  I  think.  It 
seems  to  me  that  in  any  other  language  happiness  is  not 
so  sweet,  logic  is  not  so  clear.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  could 
believe  in  my  neighbors  as  I  do  if  I  thought  about  them 
in  un-English  words.  I  could  almost  say  that  my  con- 
viction of  immortality  is  bound  up  with  the  English  of 
its  promise.  And  as  I  am  attached  to  my  prejudices,  I 
must  love  the  English  language! 

Whenever  the  teachers  did  anything  special  to  help 
me  over  my  private  difficulties,  my  gratitude  went  out 
to  them,  silently.  It  meant  so  much  to  me  that  they 
halted  the  lesson  to  give  me  a  lift,  that  I  needs  must  love 
them  for  it.  Dear  Miss  Carrol,  of  the  second  grade, 
would  be  amazed  to  hear  what  small  things  I  remem- 
ber, all  because  I  was  so  impressed  at  the  time  with  her 
readiness  and  sweetness  in  taking  notice  of  my  difficul- 
ties. 

Says  Miss  Carrol,  looking  straight  at  me:  — 

"If  Johnnie  has  three  marbles,  and  Charlie  has  twice 
as  many,  how  many  marbles  has  Charlie?" 

I  raise  my  hand  for  permission  to  speak. 

"Teacher,  I  don't  know  vhat  is  tvice." 

Teacher  beckons  me  to  her,  and  whispers  to  me  the 
meaning  of  the  strange  word,  and  I  am  able  to  write  the 
sum  correctly.  It's  all  in  the  day's  work  with  her;  with 
me,  it  is  a  special  act  of  kindness  and  efficiency. 

She  whom  I  found  in  the  next  grade  became  so  dear  a 
friend  that  I  can  hardly  name  her  with  the  rest,  though 
I  mention  none  of  them  lightly.    Her  approval  was 


INITIATION  209 

always  dear  to  me,  first  because  she  was  "Teacher,"  and 
afterwards,  as  long  as  she  lived,  because  she  was  my 
Miss  Dillingham.  Great  was  my  grief,  therefore,  when, 
shortly  after  my  admission  to  her  class,  I  incurred 
discipline,  the  first,  and  next  to  the  last,  time  in  my 
school  career. 

The  class  was  repeating  in  chorus  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
heads  bowed  on  desks.  I  was  doing  my  best  to  keep  up 
by  the  sound ;  my  mind  could  not  go  beyond  the  word 
"hallowed,"  for  which  I  had  not  found  the  meaning. 
In  the  middle  of  the  prayer  a  Jewish  boy  across  the  aisle 
trod  on  my  foot  to  get  my  attention.  "You  must  not 
say  that,"  he  admonished  in  a  solemn  whisper;  "it 's 
Christian."  I  whispered  back  that  it  was  n't,  and  went 
on  to  the  "Amen."  I  did  not  know  but  what  he  was 
right,  but  the  name  of  Christ  was  not  in  the  prayer,  and 
I  was  bound  to  do  everything  that  the  class  did.  If  I 
had  any  Jewish  scruples,  they  were  lagging  away  behind 
my  interest  in  school  affairs.  How  American  this  was: 
two  pupils  side  by  side  in  the  schoolroom,  each  holding 
to  his  own  opinion,  but  both  submitting  to  the  common 
law;  for  the  boy  at  least  bowed  his  head  as  the  teacher 
ordered. 

But  all  Miss  Dillingham  knew  of  it  was  that  two  of 
her  pupils  whispered  during  morning  prayer,  and  she 
must  discipline  them.  So  I  was  degraded  from  the  honor 
row  to  the  lowest  row,  and  it  was  many  a  day  before 
I  forgave  that  young  missionary;  it  was  not  enough 
for  my  vengeance  that  he  suffered  punishment  with 
me.  Teacher,  of  course,  heard  us  both  defend  ourselves, 
but  there  was  a  time  and  a  place  for  religious  argu- 
ments, and  she  meant  to  help  us  remember  that  point. 

I  remember  to  this  day  what  a  struggle  we  had  over 


210  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

the  word  "water,"  Miss  Dillingham  and  I.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  could  not  give  the  sound  of  vj;  I  said  "vater"  every 
time.  Patiently  my  teacher  worked  with  me,  inventing 
mouth  exercises  for  me,  to  get  my  stubborn  lips  to  pro- 
duce that  w;  and  when  at  last  I  could  say  "village"  and 
"water"  in  rapid  alternation,  without  misplacing  the 
two  initials,  that  memorable  word  was  sweet  on  my 
lips.  For  we  had  conquered,  and  Teacher  was  pleased. 

Getting  a  language  in  this  way,  word  by  word,  has  a 
charm  that  may  be  set  against  the  disadvantages.  It  is 
like  gathering  a  posy  blossom  by  blossom.  Bring  the 
bouquet  into  your  chamber,  and  these  nasturtiums 
stand  for  the  whole  flaming  carnival  of  them  tumbling 
over  the  fence  out  there;  these  yellow  pansies  recall  the 
velvet  crescent  of  color  glowing  under  the  bay  window; 
this  spray  of  honeysuckle  smells  like  the  wind-tossed 
masses  of  it  on  the  porch,  ripe  and  bee-laden ;  the  whole 
garden  in  a  glass  tumbler.  So  it  is  with  one  who  gathers 
words,  loving  them.  Particular  words  remain  associated 
with  important  occasions  in  the  learner's  mind.  I  could 
thus  write  a  history  of  my  English  vocabulary  that 
should  be  at  the  same  time  an  account  of  my  comings 
and  goings,  my  mistakes  and  my  triumphs,  during  the 
years  of  my  initiation. 

If  I  was  eager  and  diligent,  my  teachers  did  not  sleep. 
As  fast  as  my  knowledge  of  English  allowed,  they  ad- 
vanced me  from  grade  to  grade,  without  reference  to 
the  usual  schedule  of  promotions.  My  father  was  right, 
when  he  often  said,  in  discussing  my  prospects,  that 
ability  would  be  promptly  recognized  in  the  public 
schools.  Rapid  as  was  my  progress,  on  account  of  the 
advantages  with  which  I  started,  some  of  the  other 
"green"  pupils  were  not  far  behind  me;  within  a  grade 


INITIATION  211 

or  two,  by  the  end  of  the  year.  My  brother,  whose  child- 
hood had  been  one  hideous  nightmare,  what  with  the 
stupid  rebbe,  the  cruel  whip,  and  the  general  repres- 
sion of  life  in  the  Pale,  surprised  my  father  by  the  pro- 
gress he  made  under  intelligent,  sympathetic  guidance. 
Indeed,  he  soon  had  a  reputation  in  the  school  that  the 
American  boys  envied;  and  all  through  the  school  course 
he  more  than  held  his  own  with  pupils  of  his  age.  So 
much  for  the  right  and  wrong  way  of  doing  things. 

There  is  a  record  of  my  early  progress  in  English  much 
better  than  my  recollections,  however  accurate  and 
definite  these  may  be.  I  have  several  reasons  for  intro- 
ducing it  here.  First,  it  shows  what  the  Russian  Jew 
can  do  with^an  adopted  language;  next,  it  proves  that 
vigilance  of  our  public-school  teachers  of  which  I  spoke; 
and  last,  I  am  proud  of  it !  That  is  an  unnecessary  con- 
fession, but  I  could  not  be  satisfied  to  insert  the  record 
here,  with  my  vanity  unavowed. 

This  is  the  document,  copied  from  an  educational 
journal,  a  tattered  copy  of-which  lies  in  my  lap  as  I  write 
—  treasured  for  fifteen  years,  you  see,  by  my  vanity. 

Editor  "Primary  Education":  — 

This  is  the  uncorrected  paper  of  a  Russian  child  twelve 
years  old,  who  had  studied  English  only  four  months.  She 
had  never,  until  September,  been  to  school  even  in  her  own 
country  and  has  heard  English  spoken  only  at  school.  I  shall 
be  glad  if  the  paper  of  my  pupil  and  the  above  explanation 
may  appear  in  your  paper. 

M.  S.  Dillingham. 

Chelsea,  Mass. 

SNOW 

Snow  is  frozen  moisture  which  comes  from  the  clouds. 
Now  the  snow  is  coming  down  in  feather-flakes,  which 


212  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

makes  nice  snow-balls.  But  there  is  still  one  kind  of  snow 
more.  This  kind  of  snow  is  called  snow-crystals,  for  it  comes 
down  in  little  curly  balls.  These  snow-crystals  are  n't  quiet 
as  good  for  snow-balls  as  feather-flakes,  for  they  (the  snow- 
crystals)  are  dry:  so  they  can't  keep  together  as  feather- 
flakes  do. 

The  snow  is  dear  to  some  children  for  they  like  sleighing. 

As  I  said  at  the  top  —  the  snow  comes  from  the  clouds. 

Now  the  trees  are  bare,  and  no  flowers  are  to  see  in  the 
fields  and  gardens,  (we  all  know  why)  and  the  whole  world 
seems  like  asleep  without  the  happy  birds  songs  which  left  us 
till  spring.  But  the  snow  which  drove  away  all  these  pretty 
and  happy  things,  try,  (as  I  think)  not  to  make  us  at  all 
unhappy;  they  covered  up  the  branches  of  the  trees,  the 
fields,  the  gardens  and  houses,  and  the  whole  world  looks  like 
dressed  in  a  beautiful  white  —  instead  of  green  —  dress,  with 
the  sky  looking  down  on  it  with  a  pale  face. 

And  so  the  people  can  find  some  joy  in  it,  too,  without  the 
happy  summer. 

Mary   Antin. 

And  now  that  it  stands  there,  with  her  name  over  it,  I 
am  ashamed  of  my  flippant  talk  about  vanity.  More  to 
me  than  all  the  praise  I  could  hope  to  win  by  the  con- 
quest of  fifty  languages  is  the  association  of  this  dear 
friend  with  my  earliest  efforts  at  writing;  and  it  pleases 
me  to  remember  that  to  her  I  owe  my  very  first  appear- 
ance in  print.  Vanity  is  the  least  part  of  it,  when  I  re- 
member how  she  called  me  to  her  desk,  one  day  after 
school  was  out,  and  showed  me  my  composition  —  my 
own  words,  that  I  had  written  out  of  my  own  head  — 
printed  out,  clear  black  and  white,  with  my  name  at  the 
end!  Nothing  so  wonderful  had  ever  happened  to  me 
before.  My  whole  consciousness  was  suddenly  trans- 
formed. I  suppose  that  was  the  moment  when  I  became 


INITIATION  213 

a  writer.  I  always  loved  to  write.  —  I  wrote  letters 
whenever  I  had  an  excuse,  —  yet  it  had  never  occurred 
to  me  to  sit  down  and  write  my  thoughts  for  no  person 
in  particular,  merely  tojput^  the  word  on  paper.  But 
now,  as  I  read  my  own  words,  in  a  delicious  confusion, 
the  idea  was  born.  I  stared  at  my  name:  Mary  Antin. 
Was  that  really  I?  The  printed  Characters  composing 
it  seemed  strange  to  me  all  of  a  sudden.  If  that  was 
my  name,  and  those  were  the  words  out  of  my  own 
head,  what  relation  did  it  all  have  to  me,  who  was  alone 
there  with  Miss  Dillingham,  and  the  printed  page  be- 
tween us?  Why,  it  ineant  that  I  could  write  again, 
and  see  my  writing  printed  for  people  to  read !  I  could 
write  many,  many,  many  things :  I  could  write  a  book ! 
The  idea  was  so  huge,  so  bewildering,  that  my  mind 
scarcely  could  accommodate  it. 

I  do  not  know  what  my  teacher  said  to  me;  probably 
very  little.  It  was  her  way  tosay  only  a  little,  and  look 
at  me,  and  trust  me  to  understand.  Oniee  she  had  occa- 
sion to  lecture  me  about  living  a  shut-up  life;  she  wanted 
me  to  go  outdoors.  I  had  been  repeatedly  scolded  and 
reproved  on  that  score  by  other  people,  but  I  had  only 
laughed,  saying  that  I  was  too  happy  to  change  my 
ways.  But  when  Miss  Dillingham  spoke  to  me,  I  saw 
that  it  was  a  serious  matter;  and  yet  she  only  said  a  few 
words,  and  looked  at  me  with  that  smile  of  hers  that  was 
only  half  a  smile,  and  the  rest  a  meaning.  Another  time 
she  had  a  great  question  to  ask  me,  touching  my  life  to 
the  quick.  She  merely  put  her  question,  and  was  silent; 
but  I  knew  what  answer  she  expected,  and  not  being 
able  to  give  it  then,  I  went  away  sad  and  reproved. 
Years  later  I  had  my  triumphant  answer,  but  she  was  no 
longer  there  to  receive  it;  and  so  her  eyes  look  at  me, 


214  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

from  the  picture  on  the  mantel  there,  with  a  reproach  I 
no  longer  merit. 

I  ought  to  go  back  and  strike  out  all  that  talk  about 
vanity.  What  reason  have  I  to  be  vain,  when  I  reflect 
how  at  every  step  I  was  petted,  nursed,  and  encouraged? 
I  did  not  even  discover  my  own  talent.  It  was  discov- 
ered first  by  my  father  in  Russia,  and  next  by  my  friend 
in  America.  What  did  I  ever  do  but  write  when  they 
told  me  to  write?  I  suppose  my  grandfather  who  drove 
a  spavined  horse  through  lonely  country  lanes  sat  in  the 
shade  of  crisp-leaved  oaks  to  refresh  himself  with  a  bit 
of  black  bread;  and  an  acorn  falling  beside  him,  in  the 
immense  stillness,  shook  his  heart  with  the  echo,  and 
left  him  wondering.  I  suppose  my  father  stole  away 
from  the  synagogue  one  long  festival  day,  and  stretched 
himself  out  in  the  sun-warmed  grass,  and  lost  himself  in 
dreams  that  made  the  world  of  men  unreal  when  he 
returned  to  them.  And  so  what  is  there  left  for  me  to  do, 
who  do  not  have  to  drive  a  horse  nor  interpret  ancient 
lore,  but  put  my  grandfather's  question  into  words  and 
set  to  music  my  father's  dream?  The  tongue  am  I  of 
those  who  lived  before  me,  as  those  that  are  to  come 
will  be  the  voice  of  my  unspoken  thoughts.  And  so  who 
shall  be  applauded  if  the  song  be  sweet,  if  the  prophecy 
be  true? 

I  never  heard  of  any  one  who  was  so  watched  and 
coaxed,  so  passed  along  from  hand  to  helping  hand,  as 
was  I.  I  always  had  friends.  They  sprang  up  every- 
where, as  if  they  had  stood  waiting  for  me  to  come.  So 
here  was  my  teacher,  the  moment  she  saw  that  I  could 
give  a  good  paraphrase  of  her  talk  on  "Snow,"  bent  on 
finding  out  what  more  I  could  do.  One  day  she  asked 
me  if  I  had  ever  written  poetry.  I  had  not,  but  I  went 


INITIATION  215 

home  and  (tried.  I  believe  it  was  more  snow,  and  I  know 
it  was  wretched.  I  wish  I  could  produce  a  copy  of  that 
early  effusion;  it  would  prove  that  my  judgment  is  not 
severed  Wretched  it  was,  —  worse,  a  great  deal,  than 
reams  of  poetry  that  is  written  by  children  about  whom 
there  is  no  fuss  made.  But  Miss  Dillingham  was  not 
discouraged.  She  saw  that  I  had  no  idea  of  metre,  so 
she  proceeded  to  teach  me.  We  repeated  miles  of  poetry 
together,  smooth  lines  that  sang  themselves,  mostly  out 
of  Longfellow.  Then  I  would  go  home  and  write  —  oh, 
about  the  snow  in  our  back  yard !  —  but  when  Miss 
Dillingham  came  to  read  my  verses,  they  limped  and 
they  lagged  and  they  dragged,  and  there  was  no  tune 
that  would  fit  them. 

At  last  came  the  moment  of  illumination :  I  saw  where 
my  trouble  lay.  I  had  supposed  that  my  lines  matched 
when  they  had  an  equal  number  of  syllables,  taking  no 
account  of  accent.  Now  I  knew  better;  now  I  could 
write  poetry !  The  everlasting  snow  melted  at  last,  and 
the  mud  puddles  dried  in  the  spring  sun,  and  the  grass 
on  the  common  was  green,  and  still  I  wrote  poetry! 
Again  I  wish  I  had  some  example  of  my  springtime 
rhapsodies,  the  veriest  rubbish  of  the  sort  that  ever  a 
child  perpetrated.  Lizzie  McDee,  who  had  red  hair  and 
freckles,  and  a  Sunday-school  manner  on  weekdays,  and 
was  below  me  in  the  class,  did  a  great  deal  better.  We 
used  to  compare  verses;  and  while  I  do  not  remember 
that  I  ever  had  the  grace  to  own  that  she  was  the  bet- 
ter poet,  I  do  know  that  I  secretly  wondered  why  the 
teachers  did  not  invite  her  to  stay  after  school  and  study 
poetry,  while  they  took  so  much  pains  with  me.  But 
so  it  was  always  with  me:  somebody  did  something  for 
me  all  the  time. 


216  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

Making  fair  allowance  for  my  youth,  retarded  educa- 
tion, and  strangeness  to  the  language,  it  must  still  be 
admitted  that  I  never  wrote  good  verse.  But  I  loved 
to  read  it.  My  half -hours  with  Miss  Dillingham  were 
full  of  delight  for  me,  quite  apart  from  my  new-born 
ambition  to  become  a  writer.  What,  then,  was  my  joy, 
when  Miss  Dillingham,  just  before  locking  up  her  desk 
one  evening,  presented  me  with  a  volume  of  Long- 
fellow's poems !  It  was  a  thin  volume  of  selections,  but 
to  me  it  was  a  bottomless  treasure.  I  had  never  owned  a 
book  before.  The  sense  of  possession  alone  was  a  source 
of  bliss,  and  this  book  I  already  knew  and  loved.  And 
so  Miss  Dillingham,  who  was  my  first  American  friend, 
and  who  first  put  my  name  in  print,  was  also  the  one  to 
start  my  library.  Deep  is  my  regret  when  I  consider 
that  she  was  gone  before  I  had  given  much  of  an  account 
of  all  her  gifts  of  love  and  service  to  me. 

About  the  middle  of  the  year  I  was  promoted  to  the 
grammar  school.  Then  it  was  that  I  walked  on  air.  For 
I  said  to  myself  that  I  was  a  student  now,  in  earnest,  not 
merely  a  school-girl  learning  to  spell  and  cipher.  I  was 
going  to  learn  out-of-the-way  things,  things  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  ordinary  life  —  things  to  know. 
When  I  walked  home  afternoons,  with  the  great  big 
geography  book  under  my  arm,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  earth  was  conscious  of  my  step.  Sometimes  I  carried 
home  half  the  books  in  my  desk,  not  because  I  should 
need  them,  but  because  I  loved  to  hold  them;  and  also 
because  I  loved  to  be  seen  carrying  books.  It  was  a 
badge  of  scholarship,  and  I  was  proud  of  it.  I  remem- 
bered the  days  in  Vitebsk  when  I  used  to  watch  my 
cousin  Hirshel  start  for  school  in  the  morning,  every 
thread  of  his  student's  uniform,  every  worn  copybook 


INITIATION  217 

in  his  satchel,  glorified  in  my  envious  eyes.  And  now  I 
was  myself  as  he:  aye,  greater  than  he;  for  I  knew 
English,  and  I  could  write  poetry. 

If  my  head  was  not  turned  at  this  time  it  was  because 
I  was  so  busy  from  morning  till  night.  My  father  did 
his  best  to  make  me  vain  and  silly.  He  made  much  of 
me  to  every  chance  caller,  boasting  of  my  progress  at 
school,  and  of  my  exalted  friends,  the  teachers.  For  a 
school-teacher  was  no  ordinary  mortal  in  his  eyes;  she 
was  a  superior  being,  set  above  the  common  run  of  men 
by  her  erudition  and  devotion  to  higher  things.  That  a 
school-teacher  could  be  shallow  or  petty,  or  greedy  for 
pay,  was  a  thing  that  he  could  not  have  been  brought  to 
believe,  at  this  time.  And  he  was  right,  if  he  could  only 
have  stuck  to  it  in  later  years,  when  a  new-born  pessi- 
mism, fathered  by  his  perception  that  in  America,  too, 
some  things  needed  mending,  threw  him  to  the  opposite 
extreme  of  opinion,  crying  that  nothing  in  the  American 
scheme  of  society  or  government  was  worth  tinkering. 

He  surely  was  right  in  his  first  appraisal  of  the  teacher. 
The  mean  sort  of  teachers  are  not  teachers  at  all;  they 
are  self-seekers  who  take  up  teaching  as  a  business,  to 
support  themselves  and  keep  their  hands  white.  These 
same  persons,  did  they  keep  store  or  drive  a  milk  wagon 
or  wash  babies  for  a  living,  would  be  respectable.  As 
trespassers  on  a  noble  profession,  they  are  worth  no  more 
than  the  books  and  slates  and  desks  over  which  they 
preside;  so  much  furniture,  to  be  had  by  the  gross.  They 
do  not  love  their  work.  They  contribute  nothing  to  the 
higher  development  of  their  pupils.  They  busy  them- 
selves, not  with  research  into  the  science  of  teaching, 
but  with  organizing  political  demonstrations  to  advance 
the  cause  of  selfish  candidates  for  public  office,  who 


218  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

promise  them  rewards.  The  true  teachers  are  of  another 
strain.  Apostles  all  of  an  ideal,  they  go  to  their  work  in 
a  spirit  of  love  and  inquiry,  seeking  not  comfort,  not 
position,  not  old-age  pensions,  but  truth  that  is  the  soul 
of  wisdom,  the  joy  of  big-eyed  children,  the  food  of 
hungry  youth. 

They  were  true  teachers  who  used  to  come  to  me  on 
Arlington  Street,  so  my  father  had  reason  to  boast  of  the 
distinction  brought  upon  his  house.  For  the  school- 
teacher in  her  trim,  unostentatious  dress  was  an  un- 
common visitor  in  our  neighborhood;  and  the  talk  that 
passed  in  the  bare  little  "parlor"  over  the  grocery  store 
would  not  have  been  entirely  comprehensible  to  our 
next-door  neighbor. 

In  the  grammar  school  I  had  as  good  teaching  as  I 
had  had  in  the  primary.  It  seems  to  me  in  retrospect 
that  it  was  as  good,  on  the  whole,  as  the  public  school 
ideals  of  the  time  made  possible.  When  I  recall  how  I 
was  taught  geography,  I  see,  indeed,  that  there  was 
room  for  improvement  occasionally  both  in  the  sub- 
stance and  in  the  method  of  instruction.  But  I  know  of 
at  least  one  teacher  of  Chelsea  who  realized  this;  for  I 
met  her,  eight  years  later,  at  a  great  metropolitan  uni- 
versity that  holds  a  summer  session  for  the  benefit  of 
school-teachers  who  want  to  keep  up  with  the  advance 
in  their  science.  Very  likely  they  no  longer  teach  geo- 
graphy entirely  within  doors,  and  by  rote,  as  I  was 
taught.  Fifteen  years  is  plenty  of  time  for  progress. 

When  I  joined  the  first  grammar  grade,  the  class  had 
had  a  half-year's  start  of  me,  but  it  was  not  long  before 
I  found  my  place  near  the  head.  In  all  branches  except 
geography  it  was  genuine  progress.  I  overtook  the 
youngsters  in  their  study  of  numbers,  spelling,  reading, 


INITIATION  219 

and  composition.  In  geography  I  merely  made  a  bluff, 
but  I  did  not  know  it.  Neither  did  my  teacher.  I  came 
up  to  such  tests  as  she  put  me. 

The  lesson  was  on  Chelsea,  which  was  right:  geo- 
graphy, like  charity,  should  begin  at  home.  Our  text 
ran  on  for  a  paragraph  or  so  on  the  location,  bounda- 
ries, natural  features,  and  industries  of  the  town,  with 
a  bit  of  local  history  thrown  in.  We  were  to  learn  all 
these  interesting  facts,  and  be  prepared  to  write  them 
out  from  memory  the  next  day.  I  went  home  and 
learned  —  learned  every  word  of  the  text,  every  comma, 
every  footnote.  When  the  teacher  had  read  my  paper 
she  marked  it  "EE."  "E"  was  for  "excellent,"  but  my 
paper  was  absolutely  perfect,  and  must  be  put  in  a  class 
by  itself.  The  teacher  exhibited  my  paper  before  the 
class,  with  some  remarks  about  the  diligence  that  could 
overtake  in  a  week  pupils  who  had  had  half  a  year's 
start.  I  took  it  all  as  modestly  as  I  could,  never  doubt- 
ing that  I  was  indeed  a  very  bright  little  girl,  and  get- 
ting to  be  very  learned  to  boot.  I  was  "perfect"  in 
geography,  a  most  erudite  subject. 

But  what  was  the  truth?  The  words  that  I  repeated 
so  accurately  on  my  paper  had  about  as  much  meaning 
to  me  as  the  words  of  the  Psalms  I  used  to  chant  in 
Hebrew.  I  got  an  idea  that  the  city  of  Chelsea,  and  the 
world  in  general,  was  laid  out  flat,  like  the  common,  and 
shaved  off  at  the  ends,  to  allow  the  north,  south,  east, 
and  west  to  snuggle  up  close,  like  the  frame  around  a 
picture.  If  I  looked  at  the  map,  I  was  utterly  bewil- 
dered; I  could  find  no  correspondence  between  the  pic- 
ture and  the  verbal  explanations.  With  words  I  was 
safe;  I  could  learn  any  number  of  words  by  heart,  and 
sometime  or  other  they  would  pop  out  of  the  medley, 


220  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

clothed  with  meaning.  Chelsea,  I  read,  was  bounded  on 
all  sides  —  "bounded"  appealed  to  my  imagination  — 
by  various  things  that  I  had  never  identified,  much  as 
I  had  roamed  about  the  town.  I  immediately  pictured 
these  remote  boundaries  as  a  six-foot  fence  in  a  good 
state  of  preservation,  with  the  Mystic  River,  the  towns 
of  Everett  and  Revere,  and  East  Boston  Creek,  rejoic- 
ing, on  the  south,  west,  north,  and  east  of  it,  respect- 
ively, that  they  had  got  inside;  while  the  rest  of  the 
world  peeped  in  enviously  through  a  knot  hole.  In  the 
middle  of  this  cherished  area  piano  factories  —  or  was  it 
shoe  factories?  —  proudly  reared  their  chimneys,  while 
the  population  promenaded  on  a  rope  walk,  saluted  at 
every  turn  by  the  benevolent  inmates  of  the  Soldiers' 
Home  on  the  top  of  Powderhorn  Hill. 

Perhaps  the  fault  was  partly  mine,  because  I  always 
would  reduce  everything  to  a  picture.  Partly  it  may 
have  been  because  I  had  not  had  time  to  digest  the 
general  definitions  and  explanations  at  the  beginning  of 
the  book.  Still,  I  can  take  but  little  of  the  blame,  when 
I  consider  how  I  fared  through  my  geography,  right  to 
the  end  of  the  grammar-school  course.  I  did  in  time 
disentangle  the  symbolism  of  the  orange  revolving  on  a 
knitting-needle  from  the  astronomical  facts  in  the  case, 
but  it  took  years  of  training  under  a  master  of  the  sub- 
ject to  rid  me  of  my  distrust  of  the  map  as  a  represent- 
ation of  the  earth.  To  this  day  I  sometimes  blunder 
back  to  my  early  impression  that  any  given  portion  of 
the  earth's  surface  is  constructed  upon  a  skeleton  con- 
sisting of  two  crossed  bars,  terminating  in  arrowheads 
which  pin  the  cardinal  points  into  place;  and  if  I  want 
to  find  any  desired  point  of  the  compass,  I  am  inclined 
to  throw  myself  flat  on  my  nose,  my  head  due  north, 


INITIATION  221 

and  my  outstretched  arms  seeking  the  east  and  west 
respectively. 

For  in  the  schoolroom,  as  far  as  the  study  of  the  map 
went,  we  began  with  the  symbol  and  stuck  to  the  sym- 
bol. No  teacher  of  geography  I  ever  had,  except  the 
master  I  referred  to,  took  the  pains  to  ascertain  whether 
I  had  any  sense  of  the  facts  for  which  the  symbols  stood. 
Outside  the  study  of  maps,  geography  consisted  of 
statistics:  tables  of  population,  imports  and  exports, 
manufactures,  and  degrees  of  temperature;  dimensions 
of  rivers,  mountains,  and  political  states;  with  lists  of 
minerals,  plants,  and  plagues  native  to  any  given  part 
of  the  globe.  The  only  part  of  the  whole  subject  that 
meant  anything  to  me  was  the  description  of  the  aspect 
of  foreign  lands,  and  the  manners  and  customs  of  their 
peoples.  The  relation  of  physiography  to  human  his- 
tory—  what  might  be  called  the  moral  of  geography  — 
was  not  taught  at  all,  or  was  touched  upon  in  an  unim- 
pressive manner.  The  prevalence  of  this  defect  in  the 
teaching  of  school  geography  is  borne  out  by  the  sur- 
prise of  the  college  freshman,  who  remarked  to  the  pro- 
fessor of  geology  that  it  was  curious  to  note  how  all  the 
big  rivers  and  harbors  on  the  Atlantic  coastal  plain 
occurred  in  the  neighborhood  of  large  cities!  A  little 
instruction  in  the  elements  of  chartography  —  a  little 
practice  in  the  use  of  the  compass  and  the  spirit  level, 
a  topographical  map  of  the  town  common,  an  excursion 
with  a  road  map  —  would  have  given  me  a  fat  round 
earth  in  place  of  my  paper  ghost;  would  have  illum- 
ined the  one  dark  alley  in  my  school  life. 


CHAPTER  XI 


"my  country" 


The  public  school  has  done  its  best  for  us  foreigners, 
and  for  the  country,  when  it  has  made  us  into  good 
Americans.  I  am  glad  it  is  mine  to  tell  how  the  miracle 
was  wrought  in  one  case.  You  should  be  glad  to  hear  of 
it,  you  born  Americans;  for  it  is  the  story  of  the  growth 
of  your  country;  of  the  nocking  of  your  brothers  and 
sisters  from  the  far  ends  of  the  earth  to  the  flag  you  love; 
of  the  recruiting  of  your  armies  of  workers,  thinkers,  and 
leaders.  And  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  of  it,  my  com- 
rades in  adoption;  for  it  is  a  rehearsal  of  your  own  ex- 
perience, the  thrill  and  wonder  of  which  your  own  hearts 
have  felt. 

How  long  would  you  say,  wise  reader,  it  takes  to  make 
an  American?  By  the  middle  of  my  second  year  in 
school  I  had  reached  the  sixth  grade.  When,  after  the 
Christmas  holidays,  we  began  to  study  the  life  of 
Washington,  running  through  a  summary  of  the  Revo- 
lution, and  the  early  days  of  the  Republic,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  all  my  reading  and  study  had  been  idle  until 
then.  The  reader,  the  arithmetic,  the  song  book,  that 
had  so  fascinated  me  until  now,  became  suddenly  sober 
exercise  books,  tools  wherewith  to  hew  a  way  to  the 
source  of  inspiration.  When  the  teacher  read  to  us  out 
of  a  big  book  with  many  bookmarks  in  it,  I  sat  rigid 
with  attention  in  my  little  chair,  my  hands  tightly 
clasped  on  the  edge  of  my  desk;  and  I  painfully  held 
my  breath,  to  prevent  sighs  of  disappointment  escaping, 


MY  COUNTRY  223 

as  I  saw  the  teacher  skip  the  parts  between  bookmarks. 
When  the  class  read,  and  it  came  my  turn,  my  voice 
shook  and  the  book  trembled  in  my  hands.  I  could  not 
pronounce  the  name  of  George  Washington  without  a 
pause.  Never  had  I  prayed,  never  had  I  chanted  the 
songs  of  David,  never  had  I  called  upon  the  Most  Holy, 
in  such  utter  reverence  and  worship  as  I  repeated  the 
simple  sentences  of  my  child's  story  of  the  patriot.  I 
gazed  with  adoration  at  the  portraits  of  George  and 
Martha  Washington,  till  I  could  see  them  with  my  eyes 
shut.  And  whereas  formerly  my  self-consciousness  had 
bordered  on  conceit,  and  I  thought  myself  an  uncommon 
person,  parading  my  schoolbooks  through  the  streets, 
and  swelling  with  pride  when  a  teacher  detained  me  in 
conversation,  now  I  grew  humble  all  at  once,  seeing  how 
insignificant  I  was  beside  the  Great. 

As  I  read  about  the  noble  boy  who  would  not  tell  a  lie 
to  save  himself  from  punishment,  I  was  for  the  first  time 
truly  repentant  of  my  sins.  Formerly  I  had  fasted  and 
prayed  and  made  sacrifice  on  the  Day  of  Atonement, 
but  it  was  more  than  half  play,  in  mimicry  of  my  elders. 
I  had  no  real  horror  of  sin,  and  I  knew  so  many  ways  of 
escaping  punishment.  I  am  sure  my  family,  my  neigh- 
bors, my  teachers  in  Polotzk  —  all  my  world,  in  fact  — 
strove  together,  by  example  and  precept,  to  teach  me 
goodness.  Saintliness  had  a  new  incarnation  in  about 
every  third  person  I  knew.  I  did  respect  the  saints,  but 
I  could  not  help  seeing  that  most  of  them  were  a  little 
bit  stupid,  and  that  mischief  was  much  more  fun  than 
piety.  Goodness,  as  I  had  known  it,  was  respectable, 
but  not  necessarily  admirable.  The  people  I  really  ad- 
mired, like  my  Uncle  Solomon,  and  Cousin  Rachel, 
were  those  who  preached  the  least  and  laughed  the  most. 


224  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

My  sister  Frieda  was  perfectly  good,  but  she  did  not 
think  the  less  of  me  because  I  played  tricks.  What  I 
loved  in  my  friends  was  not  inimitable.  One  could  be 
downright  good  if  one  really  wanted  to.  One  could  be 
learned  if  one  had  books  and  teachers.  One  could  sing 
funny  songs  and  tell  anecdotes  if  one  travelled  about 
and  picked  up  such  things,  like  one's  uncles  and  cousins. 
But  a  human  being  strictly  good,  perfectly  wise,  and 
unfailingly  valiant,  all  at  the  same  time,  I  had  never 
heard  or  dreamed  of.  This  wonderful  George  Washing- 
ton was  as  inimitable  as  he  was  irreproachable.  Even  if 
I  had  never,  never  told  a  lie,  I  could  not  compare  myself 
to  George  Washington ;  for  I  was  not  brave  —  I  was 
afraid  to  go  out  when  snowballs  whizzed  —  and  I  could 
never  be  the  First  President  of  the  United  States. 

So  I  was  forced  to  revise  my  own  estimate  of  myself. 
But  the  twin  of  my  new-born  humility,  paradoxical  as 
it  may  seem,  was  a  sense  of  dignity  I  had  never  known 
before.  For  if  I  found  that  I  was  a  person  of  small  con- 
sequence, I  discovered  at  the  same  time  that  I  was  more 
nobly  related  than  I  had  ever  supposed.  I  had  relatives 
and  friends  who  were  notable  people  by  the  old  stand- 
ards, —  I  had  never  been  ashamed  of  my  family,  —  but 
this  George  Washington,  who  died  long  before  I  was 
born,  was  like  a  king  in  greatness,  and  he  and  I  were 
Fellow  Citizens.  There  was  a  great  deal  about  Fellow 
Citizens  in  the  patriotic  literature  we  read  at  this  time; 
and  I  knew  from  my  father  howhe  was  a  Citizen,  through 
the  process  of  naturalization,  and  howl  also  was  a  citizen, 
by  virtue  of  my  relation  to  him.  Undoubtedly  I  was  a 
Fellow  Citizen,  and  George  Washington  was  another. 
It  thrilled  me  to  realize  what  sudden  greatness  had  fallen 
on  me;  and  at  the  same  time  it  sobered  me,  as  with  a 


MY   COUNTRY  225 

sense  of  responsibility.  I  strove  to  conduct  myself  as 
befitted  a  Fellow  Citizen. 

Before  books  came  into  my  life,  I  was  given  to  star- 
gazing and  daydreaming.  When  books  were  given  me,  I 
fell  upon  them  as  a  glutton  pounces  on  his  meat  after  a 
period  of  enforced  starvation.  I  lived  with  my  nose  in  a 
book,  and  took  no  notice  of  the  alternations  of  the  sun 
and  stars.  But  now,  after  the  advent  of  George  Wash- 
ington and  the  American  Revolution,  I  began  to  dream 
again.  I  strayed  on  the  common  after  school  instead  of 
hurrying  home  to  read.  I  hung  on  fence  rails,  my  pet 
book  forgotten  under  my  arm,  and  gazed  off  to  the 
yellow-streaked  February  sunset,  and  beyond,  and  be- 
yond. I  was  no  longer  the  central  figure  of  my  dreams; 
the  dry  weeds  in  the  lane  crackled  beneath  the  tread  of 
Heroes. 

What  more  could  America  give  a  child?  Ah,  much 
more !  As  I  read  how  the  patriots  planned  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  the  women  gave  their  sons  to  die  in  battle,  and 
the  heroes  led  to  victory,  and  the  rejoicing  people  set 
up  the  Republic,  it  dawned  on  me  gradually  what  was 
meant  by  my  country.  The  people  all  desiring  noble 
things,  and  striving  for  them  together,  defying  their 
oppressors,  giving  their  lives  for  each  other  —  all  this 
it  was  that  made  my  country.  It  was  not  a  thing  that  I 
understood;  I  could  not  go  home  and  tell  Frieda  about 
it,  as  I  told  her  other  things  I  learned  at  school.  But  I 
knew  one  could  say  "my  country"  and  feel  it,  as  one 
felt  "God"  or  "myself."  My  teacher,  my  schoolmates, 
Miss  Dillingham,  George  Washington  himself  could  not 
mean  more  than  I  when  they  said  "my  country,"  after  I 
had  once  felt  it.  For  the  Country  was  for  all  the  Citi- 
zens, and  I  was  a  Citizen.  And  when  we  stood  up  to  sing 


226  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

"America,"  I  shouted  the  words  with  all  my  might.  I 
was  in  very  earnest  proclaiming  to  the  world  my  love 
for  my  new-found  country. 

"  I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills.'* 

Boston  Harbor,  Crescent  Beach,  Chelsea  Square  —  all 
was  hallowed  ground  to  me.  As  the  day  approached 
when  the  school  was  to  hold  exercises  in  honor  of 
Washington's  Birthday,  the  halls  resounded  at  all  hours 
with  the  strains  of  patriotic  songs;  and  I,  who  was  a 
model  of  the  attentive  pupil,  more  than  once  lost  my 
place  in  the  lesson  as  I  strained  to  hear,  through  closed 
doors,  some  neighboring  class  rehearsing  "The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner."  If  the  doors  happened  to  open,  and 
the  chorus  broke  out  unveiled  — 

"0!  say,  does  that  Star-Spangled  Banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave?  "  — 

delicious  tremors  ran  up  and  down  my  spine,  and  I  was 
faint  with  suppressed  enthusiasm. 

Where  had  been  my  country  until  now?  What  flag 
had  I  loved?  What  heroes  had  I  worshipped?  The  very 
names  of  these  things  had  been  unknown  to  me.  Well  I 
knew  that  Polotzk  was  not  my  country.  It  was  goluth  — 
exile.  On  many  occasions  in  the  year  we  prayed  to  God 
to  lead  us  out  of  exile.  The  beautiful  Passover  service 
closed  with  the  words,  "Next  year,  may  we  be  in  Jeru- 
salem." On  childish  lips,  indeed,  those  words  were  no 
conscious  aspiration;  we  repeated  the  Hebrew  syllables 
after  our  elders,  but  without  their  hope  and  longing. 
Still  not  a  child  among  us  was  too  young  to  feel  in  his 
own  flesh  the  lash  of  the  oppressor.  We  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  Jews  in  exile,  from  the  spiteful  treatment 


MY   COUNTRY  227 

we  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  smallest  urchin  who 
crossed  himself;  and  thence  we  knew  that  Israel  had 
good  reason  to  pray  for  deliverance.   But  the  story  of 
the  Exodus  was  not  history  to  me  in  the  sense  that  the 
story  of  the  American  Revolution  was.  It  was  more  like 
a  glorious  myth,  a  belief  in  which  had  the  effect  of  cut- 
ting me  off  from  the  actual  world,  by  linking  me  with  a 
world  of  phantoms.  Those  moments  of  exaltation  which 
the  contemplation  of  the  Biblical  past  afforded  us, 
allowing  us  to  call  ourselves  the  children  of  princes, 
served  but  to  tinge  with  a  more  poignant  sense  of  dis- 
inheritance the  long  humdrum  stretches  of  our  life.   In 
very  truth  we  were  a  people  without  a  country.    Sur- 
rounded by  mocking  foes  and  detractors,  it  was  difficult 
for  me  to  realize  the  persons  of  my  people's  heroes  or  the 
events  in  which  they  moved.    Except  in  moments  of 
abstraction  from  the  world  around  me,  I  scarcely  under- 
stood that  Jerusalem  was  an  actual  spot  on  the  earth, 
where  once  the  Kings  of  the  Bible,  real  people,  like  my 
neighbors  in  Polotzk,  ruled  in  puissant  majesty.  For  the 
conditions  of  our  civil  life  did  not  permit  us  to  cultivate 
a  spirit  of  nationalism.    The  freedom  of  worship  that 
was  grudgingly  granted  within  the  narrow  limits  of  the 
Pale  by  no  means  included  the  right  to  set  up  openly 
any  ideal  of  a  Hebrew  State,  any  hero  other  than  the 
Czar.  What  we  children  picked  up  of  our  ancient  polit- 
ical history  was  confused  with  the  miraculous  story  of 
the  Creation,  with  the  supernatural  legends  and  hazy 
associations  of  Bible  lore.  As   to  our  future,  we  Jews 
in  Polotzk  had  no  national  expectations;  only  a  life- 
worn  dreamer  here  and  there  hoped  to  die  in  Palestine. 
If  Fetchke  and  I  sang,  with  my  father,  first  making  sure 
of  our  audience,  "Zion,  Zion,  Holy  Zion,  not  forever  is 


228  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

it  lost,"  we  did  not  really  picture  to  ourselves  Judaea 
restored. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  we  did  not  know  what  my 
country  could  mean  to  a  man.  And  as  we  had  no  coun- 
try, so  we  had  no  flag  to  love.  It  was  by  no  far-fetched 
symbolism  that  the  banner  of  the  House  of  Romanoff 
became  the  emblem  of  our  latter-day  bondage  in  our 
eyes.  Even  a  child  would  know  how  to  hate  the  flag 
that  we  were  forced,  on  pain  of  severe  penalties,  to  hoist 
above  our  housetops,  in  celebration  of  the  advent  of  one 
of  our  oppressors.  And  as  it  was  with  country  and  flag, 
so  it  was  with  heroes  of  war.  We  hated  the  uniform  of  the 
soldier,  to  the  last  brass  button.  On  the  person  of  a 
Gentile,  it  was  the  symbol  of  tyranny;  on  the  person  of 
a  Jew,  it  was  the  emblem  of  shame. 

So  a  little  Jewish  girl  in  Polotzk  was  apt  to  grow  up 
hungry-minded  and  empty-hearted;  and  if,  still  in  her 
outreaching  youth,  she  was  set  down  in  a  land  of  out- 
spoken patriotism,  she  was  likely  to  love  her  new  coun- 
try with  a  great  love,  and  to  embrace  its  heroes  in  a 
great  worship.  Naturalization,  with  us  Russian  Jews, 
may  mean  more  than  the  adoption  of  the  immigrant 
by  America.  It  may  mean  the  adoption  of  America  by 
the  immigrant. 

On  the  day  of  the  Washington  celebration  I  recited  a 
poem  that  I  had  composed  in  my  enthusiasm.  But 
"composed"  is  not  the  word.  The  process  of  putting  on 
paper  the  sentiments  that  seethed  in  my  soul  was  really 
very  discomposing.  I  dug  the  words  out  of  my  heart, 
squeezed  the  rhymes  out  of  my  brain,  forced  the  missing 
syllables  out  of  their  hiding-places  in  the  dictionary. 
May  I  never  again  know  such  travail  of  the  spirit  as  I 
endured  during  the  fevered  days  when  I  was  engaged  on 


MY   COUNTRY  229 

the  poem.  It  was  not  as  if  I  wanted  to  say  that  snow 
was  white  or  grass  was  green.  I  could  do  that  without  a 
dictionary.  It  was  a  question  now  of  the  loftiest  senti- 
ments, of  the  most  abstract  truths,  the  names  of  which 
were  very  new  in  my  vocabulary.  It  was  necessary  to 
use  polysyllables,  and  plenty  of  them;  and  where  to  find 
rhymes  for  such  words  as  "tyranny,"  "freedom,"  and 
"justice,"  when  you  had  less  than  two  years'  acquaint- 
ance with  English !  The  name  I  wished  to  celebrate  was 
the  most  difficult  of  all.  Nothing  but  "Washington" 
rhymed  with  "Washington."  It  was  a  most  ambitious 
undertaking,  but  my  heart  could  find  no  rest  till  it  had 
proclaimed  itself  to  the  world;  so  I  wrestled  with  my 
difficulties,  and  spared  not  ink,  till  inspiration  perched 
on  my  penpoint,  and  my  soul  gave  up  its  best. 

When  I  had  done,  I  was  myself  impressed  with  the 
length,  gravity,  and  nobility  of  my  poem.  My  father 
was  overcome  with  emotion  as  he  read  it.  His  hands 
trembled  as  he  held  the  paper  to  the  light,  and  the  mist 
gathered  in  his  eyes.  My  teacher,  Miss  D wight,  was 
plainly  astonished  at  my  performance,  and  said  many 
kind  things,  and  asked  many  questions;  all  of  which  I 
took  very  solemnly,  like  one  who  had  been  in  the  clouds 
and  returned  to  earth  with  a  sign  upon  him.  When 
Miss  Dwight  asked  me  to  read  my  poem  to  the  class 
on  the  day  of  celebration,  I  readily  consented.  It  was 
not  in  me  to  refuse  a  chance  to  tell  my  schoolmates 
what  I  thought  of  George  Washington. 

I  was  not  a  heroic  figure  when  I  stood  up  in  front  of 
the  class  to  pronounce  the  praises  of  the  Father  of  his 
Country.  Thin,  pale,  and  hollow,  with  a  shadow  of 
short  black  curls  on  my  brow,  and  the  staring  look  of 
prominent  eyes,  I  must  have  looked  more  frightened 


230  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

than  imposing.  My  dress  added  no  grace  to  my  appear- 
ance. "Plaids  "  were  in  fashion,  and  my  frock  was  of  a 
red-and-green  "plaid"  that  had  a  ghastly  effect  on  my 
complexion.  I  hated  it  when  I  thought  of  it,  but  on  the 
great  day  I  did  not  know  I  had  any  dress  on.  Heels 
clapped  together,  and  hands  glued  to  my  sides,  I  lifted 
up  my  voice  in  praise  of  George  Washington.  It  was  not 
much  of  a  voice;  like  my  hollow  cheeks,  it  suggested 
consumption.  My  pronunciation  was  faulty,  my  decla- 
mation flat.  But  I  had  the  courage  of  my  convictions.  I 
was  face  to  face  with  twoscore  Fellow  Citizens,  in  clean 
blouses  and  extra  frills.  I  must  tell  them  what  George 
Washington  had  done  for  their  country  —  for  our  coun- 
try —  for  me. 

I  can  laugh  now  at  the  impossible  metres,  the  gran- 
diose phrases,  the  verbose  repetitions  of  my  poem. 
Years  ago  I  must  have  laughed  at  it,  when  I  threw  my 
only  copy  into  the  wastebasket.  The  copy  I  am  now 
turning  over  was  loaned  me  by  Miss  Dwight,  who  faith- 
fully preserved  it  all  these  years,  for  the  sake,  no  doubt, 
of  what  I  strove  to  express  when  I  laboriously  hitched 
together  those  dozen  and  more  ungraceful  stanzas.  But 
to  the  forty  Fellow  Citizens  sitting  in  rows  in  front  of 
me  it  was  no  laughing  matter.  Even  the  bad  boys  sat  in 
attitudes  of  attention,  hypnotized  by  the  solemnity  of 
my  demeanor.  If  they  got  any  inkling  of  what  the  hail 
of  big  words  was  about,  it  must  have  been  through  oc- 
cult suggestion.  I  fixed  their  eighty  eyes  with  my  single 
stare,  and  gave  it  to  them,  stanza  after  stanza,  with 
such  emphasis  as  the  lameness  of  the  lines  permitted. 

He  whose  courage,  will,  amazing  bravery, 
Did  free  his  land  from  a  despot's  rule, 

From  man's  greatest  evil,  almost  slavery, 
And  all  that's  taught  in  tyranny's  school, 


MY  COUNTRY  231 

Who  gave  his  land  its  liberty, 
Who  was  he  ? 

'T  was  he  who  e'er  will  be  our  pride, 

Immortal  Washington, 
Who  always  did  in  truth  confide.  *. 

We  hail  our  Washington! 

The  best  of  the  verses  were  no  better  than  these,  but 
the  children  listened.  They  had  to.  Presently  I  gave 
them  news,  declaring  that  Washington 

Wrote  the  famous  Constitution;  sacred 's  the  hand 

That  this  blessed  guide  to  man  had  given,  which  says,  "One 

And  all  of  mankind  are  alike,  excepting  none." 

This  was  received  in  respectful  silence,  possibly  be- 
cause the  other  Fellow  Citizens  were  as  hazy  about  his- 
torical facts  as  I  at  this  point.  "Hurrah  for  Washing- 
ton!" they  understood,  and  "Three  cheers  for  the  Red, 
White,  and  Blue!"  was  only  to  be  expected  on  that  oc- 
casion. But  there  ran  a  special  note  through  my  poem 
—  a  thought  that  only  Israel  Rubinstein  or  Beckie 
Aronovitch  could  have  fully  understood,  besides  myself. 
For  I  made  myself  the  spokesman  of  the  "luckless  sons 
of  Abraham,"  saying  — 

Then  we  weary  Hebrew  children  at  last  found  rest 
In  the  land  where  reigned  Freedom,  and  like  a  nest 
To  homeless  birds  your  land  proved  to  us,  and  therefore 
Will  we  gratefully  sing  your  praise  evermore. 

The  boys  and  girls  who  had  never  been  turned  away 
from  any  door  because  of  their  father's  religion  sat  as  if 
fascinated  in  their  places.  But  they  woke  up  and  ap- 
plauded heartily  when  I  was  done,  following  the  ex- 
ample of  Miss  Dwight,  who  wore  the  happy  face  which 
meant  that  one  of  her  pupils  had  done  well. 


232  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

The  recitation  was  repeated,  by  request,  before  several 
other  classes,  and  the  applause  was  equally  prolonged  at 
each  repetition.  After  the  exercises  I  was  surrounded, 
praised,  questioned,  and  made  much  of,  by  teachers  as 
well  as  pupils.  Plainly  I  had  not  poured  my  praise  of 
George  Washington  into  deaf  ears.  The  teachers  asked 
me  if  anybody  had  helped  me  with  the  poem.  The  girls 
invariably  asked,  "Mary  Antin,  how  could  you  think 
of  all  those  words?"  None  of  them  thought  of  the  dic- 
tionary ! 

If  I  had  been  satisfied  with  my  poem  in  the  first  place, 
the  applause  with  which  it  was  received  by  my  teachers 
and  schoolmates  convinced  me  that  I  had  produced  a 
very  fine  thing  indeed.  So  the  person,  whoever  it  was, 
—  perhaps  my  father  —  who  suggested  that  my  tribute 
to  Washington  ought  to  be  printed,  did  not  find  me  dif- 
ficult to  persuade.  When  I  had  achieved  an  absolutely 
perfect  copy  of  my  verses,  at  the  expense  of  a  dozen 
sheets  of  blue-ruled  note  paper,  I  crossed  the  Mystic 
River  to  Boston  and  boldly  invaded  Newspaper  Row. 

It  never  occurred  to  me  to  send  my  manuscript  by 
mail.  In  fact,  it  has  never  been  my  way  to  send  a  dele- 
gate where  I  could  go  myself.  Consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, I  have  always  acted  on  the  motto  of  a  wise  man 
who  was  one  of  the  dearest  friends  that  Boston  kept  for 
me  until  I  came.  "Personal  presence  moves  the  world, " 
said  the  great  Dr.  Hale;  and  I  went  in  person  to  beard 
the  editor  in  his  armchair. 

From  the  ferry  slip  to  the  offices  of  the  "  Boston  Tran- 
script" the  way  was  long,  strange,  and  full  of  perils;  but 
I  kept  resolutely  on  up  Hanover  Street,  being  familiar 
with  that  part  of  my  route,  till  I  came  to  a  puzzling 
corner.    There   I  stopped,  utterly  bewildered  by  the 


MY  COUNTRY  233 

tangle  of  streets,  the  roar  of  traffic,  the  giddy  swarm 
of  pedestrians.  With  the  precious  manuscript  tightly 
clasped,  I  balanced  myself  on  the  curbstone,  afraid  to 
plunge  into  the  boiling  vortex  of  the  crossing.  Every 
time  I  made  a  start,  a  clanging  street  car  snatched  up 
the  way.  I  could  not  even  pick  out  my  street;  the  unob- 
trusive street  signs  were  lost  to  my  unpractised  sight,  in 
the  glaring  confusion  of  store  signs  and  advertisements. 
If  I  accosted  a  pedestrian  to  ask  the  way,  I  had  to  speak 
several  times  before  I  was  heard.  Jews,  hurrying  by 
with  bearded  chins  on  their  bosoms  and  eyes  intent, 
shrugged  their  shoulders  at  the  name  "Transcript," 
and  shrugged  till  they  were  out  of  sight.  Italians  saun- 
tering behind  their  fruit  carts  answered  my  inquiry 
with  a  lift  of  the  head  that  made  their  earrings  gleam, 
and  a  wave  of  the  hand  that  referred  me  to  all  four 
points  of  the  compass  at  once.  I  was  trying  to  catch  the 
eye  of  the  tall  policeman  who  stood  grandly  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  crossing,  a  stout  pillar  around  which  the  waves 
of  traffic  broke,  when  deliverance  bellowed  in  my  ear. 

"Herald,  Globe,  Record,  Tra-avel-er!  Eh?  Whatcher 
want,  sis?  "  The  tall  newsboy  had  to  stoop  to  me. 
"Transcript?  Sure!"  And  in  half  a  twinkling  he  had 
picked  me  out  a  paper  from  his  bundle.  When  I  ex- 
plained to  him,  he  good-naturedly  tucked  the  paper  in 
again,  piloted  me  across,  unravelled  the  end  of  Washing- 
ton Street  for  me,  and  with  much  pointing  out  of  land- 
marks, headed  me  for  my  destination,  my  nose  seeking 
the  spire  of  the  Old  South  Church. 

I  found  the  "Transcript"  building  a  waste  of  corri- 
dors tunnelled  by  a  maze  of  staircases.  On  the  glazed- 
glass  doors  were  many  signs  with  the  names  or  nick- 
names of  many. persons :  " City  Editor  " ;  "Beggars  and 


234  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

Peddlers  not  Allowed."  The  nameless  world  not  in- 
cluded in  these  categories  was  warned  off,  forbidden  to 
beor  do:  "Private  —  No  Admittance  " ;  "Don't  Knock." 
And  the  various  inhospitable  legends  on  the  doors  and 
walls  were  punctuated  by  frequent  cuspidors  on  the 
floor.  There  was  no  sign  anywhere  of  the  welcome  which 
I,  as  an  author,  expected  to  find  in  the  home  of  a  news- 
paper. 

I  was  descending  from  the  top  story  to  the  street  for 
the  seventh  time,  trying  to  decide  what  kind  of  editor  a 
patriotic  poem  belonged  to,  when  an  untidy  boy  carry- 
ing broad  paper  streamers  and  whistling  shrilly,  in  de- 
fiance of  an  express  prohibition  on  the  wall,  bustled 
through  the  corridor  and  left  a  door  ajar.  I  slipped  in 
behind  him,  and  found  myself  in  a  room  full  of  editors. 

I  was  a  little  surprised  at  the  appearance  of  the  editors. 
I  had  imagined  my  editor  would  look  like  Mr.  Jones,  the 
principal  of  my  school,  whose  coat  was  always  buttoned, 
and  whose  finger  nails  were  beautiful.  These  people 
were  in  shirt  sleeves,  and  they  smoked,  and  they  did  n't 
politely  turn  in  their  revolving  chairs  when  I  came  in, 
and  ask,  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  room  was  noisy  with  typewriters,  and  nobody 
heard  my  "Please,  can  you  tell  me."  At  last  one  6f  the 
machines  stopped,  and  the  operator  thought  he  heard 
something  in  the  pause.  He  looked  up  through  his  own 
smoke.  I  guess  he  thought  he  saw  something,  for  he 
stared.  It  troubled  me  a  little  to  have  him  stare  so.  I 
realized  suddenly  that  the  hand  in  which  I  carried  my 
manuscript  was  moist,  and  I  was  afraid  it  would  make 
marks  on  the  paper.  I  held  out  the  manuscript  to  the  ed- 
itor, explaining  that  it  was  a  poem  about  George  Wash- 
ington, and  would  he  please  print  it  in  the  "Transcript." 


MY  COUNTRY  235 

There  was  something  queer  about  that  particular 
editor.  The  way  he  stared  and  smiled  made  me  feel 
about  eleven  inches  high,  and  my  voice  kept  growing 
smaller  and  smaller  as  I  neared  the  end  of  my  speech. 

At  last  he  spoke,  laying  down  his  pipe,  and  sitting 
back  at  his  ease. 

"So  you  have  brought  us  a  poem,  my  child?" 

"It's  about  George  Washington,"  I  repeated  impress- 
ively.  "Don't  you  want  to  read  it?" 

"I  should  be  delighted,  my  dear,  but  the  fact  is  — " 

He  did  not  take  my  paper.  He  stood  up  and  called 
across  the  room. 

"Say,  Jack!  here  is  a  young  lady  who  has  brought  us 
a  poem  —  about  George  Washington.  —  Wrote  it  your- 
self, my  dear?  —  Wrote  it  all  herself.  What  shall  we  do 
with  her?" 

Mr.  Jack  came  over,  and  another  man.  My  editor 
made  me  repeat  my  business,  and  they  all  looked  inter- 
ested, but  nobody  took  my  paper  from  me.  They  put 
their  hands  into  their  pockets,  and  my  hand  kept  grow- 
ing clammier  all  the  time.  The  three  seemed  to  be  con- 
sulting, but  I  could  not  understand  what  they  said,  or 
why  Mr.  Jack  laughed. 

A  fourth  man,  who  had  been  writing  busily  at  a  desk 
near  by,  broke  in  on  the  consultation. 

"That 's  enough,  boys,"  he  said,  "that 's  enough. 
Take  the  young  lady  to  Mr.  Hurd." 

Mr.  Hurd,  it  was  found,  was  away  on  a  vacation, 
and  of  several  other  editors  in  several  offices,  to  whom 
I  was  referred,  none  proved  to  be  the  proper  editor  to 
take  charge  of  a  poem  about  George  Washington.  At 
last  an  elderly  editor  suggested  that  as  Mr.  Hurd  would 
be  away  for  some  time,  I  would  do  well  to  give  up 


236  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

the  "Transcript"  and  try  the  "Herald,"  across  the 
way. 

A  little  tired  by  my  wanderings,  and  bewildered  by 
the  complexity  of  the  editorial  system,  but  still  con- 
fident about  my  mission,  I  picked  my  way  across  Wash- 
ington Street  and  found  the  "Herald"  offices.  Here  I 
had  instant  good  luck.  The  first  editor  I  addressed  took 
my  paper  and  invited  me  to  a  seat.  He  read  my  poem 
much  more  quickly  than  I  could  myself,  and  said  it  was 
very  nice,  and  asked  me  some  questions,  and  made  notes 
on  a  slip  of  paper  which  he  pinned  to  my  manuscript. 
He  said  he  would  have  my  piece  printed  very  soon,  and 
would  send  me  a  copy  of  the  issue  in  which  it  appeared. 
As  I  was  going,  I  could  not  help  giving  the  editor  my 
hand,  although  I  had  not  experienced  any  handshaking 
in  Newspaper  Row.  I  felt  that  as  author  and  editor 
we  were  on  a  very  pleasant  footing,  and  I  gave  him  my 
hand  in  token  of  comradeship. 

I  had  regained  my  full  stature  and  something  over, 
during  this  cordial  interview,  and  when  I  stepped  out 
into  the  street  and  saw  the  crowd  intently  studying  the 
bulletin  board  I  swelled  out  of  all  proportion.  For  I  told 
myself  that  I,  Mary  Antin,  was  one  of  the  inspired 
brotherhood  who  made  newspapers  so  interesting.  I 
did  not  know  whether  my  poem  would  be  put  upon  the 
bulletin  board;  but  at  any  rate,  it  would  be  in  the  paper, 
with  my  name  at  the  bottom,  like  my  story  about 
"Snow"  in  Miss  Dillingham's  school  journal.  And  all 
these  people  in  the  streets,  and  more,  thousands  of  peo- 
ple —  all  Boston ! —  would  read  my  poem,  and  learn  my 
name,  and  wonder  who  I  was.  I  smiled  to  myself  in 
delicious  amusement  when  a  man  deliberately  put  me 
out  of  his  path,  as  I  dreamed  my  way  through  the  jost- 


MY  COUNTRY  237 

ling  crowd;  if  he  only  knew  whom  he  was  treating  so 
unceremoniously ! 

When  the  paper  with  my  poem  in  it  arrived,  the  whole 
house  pounced  upon  it  at  once.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
that  my  verses  were  not  all  over  the  front  page.  The 
poem  was  a  little  hard  to  find,  if  anything,  being  tucked 
away  in  the  middle  of  the  voluminous  sheet.  But  when 
we  found  it,  it  looked  wonderful,  just  like  real  poetry, 
not  at  all  as  if  somebody  we  knew  had  written  it.  It 
occupied  a  gratifying  amount  of  space,  and  was  intro- 
duced by  a  flattering  biographical  sketch  of  the  author 
—  the  author!  —  the  material  for  which  the  friendly 
editor  had  artfully  drawn  from  me  during  that  happy 
interview.  And  my  name,  as  I  had  prophesied,  was  at 
the  bottom! 

When  the  excitement  in  the  house  had  subsided,  my 
father  took  all  the  change  out  of  the  cash  drawer  and 
went  to  buy  up  the  "Herald."  He  did  not  count  the 
pennies.  He  just  bought  "Heralds,"  all  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on,  and  distributed  them  gratis  to  all  our  friends, 
relatives,  and  acquaintances;  to  all  who  could  read,  and 
to  some  who  could  not.  For  weeks  he  carried  a  clipping 
from  the  "Herald"  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  few  were 
the  occasions  when  he  did  not  manage  to  introduce  it 
into  the  conversation.  He  treasured  that  clipping  as  for 
years  he  had  treasured  the  letters  I  wrote  him  from 
Polotzk. 

Although  my  father  bought  up  most  of  the  issue  con- 
taining my  poem,  a  few  hundred  copies  were  left  to  cir- 
culate among  the  general  public,  enough  to  spread  the 
flame  of  my  patriotic  ardor  and  to  enkindle  a  thousand 
sluggish  hearts.  Really,  there  was  something  more  sol- 
emn than  vanity  in  my  satisfaction.  Pleased  as  I  was 


238  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

with  my  notoriety  —  and  nobody  but  I  knew  how  ex- 
ceedingly pleased  —  I  had  a  sober  feeling  about  it  all. 
I  enjoyed  being  praised  and  admired  and  envied;  but 
what  gave  a  divine  flavor  to  my  happiness  was  the  idea 
that  I  had  publicly  borne  testimony  to  the  goodness  of 
my  exalted  hero,  to  the  greatness  of  my  adopted  coun- 
try. I  did  not  discount  the  homage  of  Arlington  Street, 
because  I  did  not  properly  rate  the  intelligence  of  its 
population.  I  took  the  admiration  of  my  schoolmates 
without  a  grain  of  salt;  it  was  just  so  much  honey  to  me. 
I  could  not  know  that  what  made  me  great  in  the  eyes 
of  my  neighbors  was  that  "there  was  a  piece  about  me 
in  the  paper";  it  mattered  very  little  to  them  what  the 
"piece  "  was  about.  I  thought  they  really  admired  my 
sentiments.  On  the  street,  in  the  schoolyard,  I  was 
pointed  out.  The  people  said,  "That's  Mary  Antin. 
She  had  her  name  in  the  paper."  I  thought  they  said, 
"This  is  she  who  loves  her  country  and  worships  George 
Washington." 

To  repeat,  I  was  well  aware  that  I  was  something  of 
a  celebrity,  and  took  all  possible  satisfaction  in  the  fact; 
yet  I  gave  my  schoolmates  no  occasion  to  call  me  "stuck- 
up."  My  vanity  did  not  express  itself  in  strutting  or 
wagging  the  head.  I  played  tag  and  puss-in-the-corner 
in  the  schoolyard,  and  did  everything  that  was  comrade- 
like. But  in  the  schoolroom  I  conducted  myself  gravely, 
as  befitted  one  who  was  preparing  for  the  noble  career 
of  a  poet. 

I  am  forgetting  Lizzie  McDee.  I  am  trying  to  give 
the  impression  that  I  behaved  with  at  least  outward 
modesty  during  my  schoolgirl  triumphs,  whereas  Lizzie 
could  testify  that  she  knew  Mary  Antin  as  a  vain  boast- 
ful, curly-headed  little  Jew.  For  I  had  a  special  style  of 


MY  COUNTRY  239 

deportment  for  Lizzie.  If  there  was  any  girl  in  the 
school  besides  me  who  could  keep  near  the  top  of  the 
class  all  the  year  through,  and  give  bright  answers  when 
the  principal  or  the  school  committee  popped  sudden 
questions,  and  write  rhymes  that  almost  always  rhymed, 
I  was  determined  that  that  ambitious  person  should  not 
soar  unduly  in  her  own  estimation.  So  I  took  care  to 
show  Lizzie  all  my  poetry,  and  when  she  showed  me  hers 
I  did  not  admire  it  too  warmly.  Lizzie,  as  I  have  already 
said,  was  in  a  Sunday-school  mood  even  on  week  days; 
her  verses  all  had  morals.  My  poems  were  about  the 
crystal  snow,  and  the  ocean  blue,  and  sweet  spring,  and 
fleecy  clouds;  when  I  tried  to  drag  in  a  moral  it  kicked 
so  that  the  music  of  my  lines  went  out  in  a  groan.  So  I 
had  a  sweet  revenge  when  Lizzie,  one  day,  volunteered 
to  bolster  up  the  eloquence  of  Mr.  Jones,  the  principal, 
who  was  lecturing  the  class  for  bad  behavior,  by  com- 
paring the  bad  boy  in  the  schoolroom  to  the  rotten  apple 
that  spoils  the  barrelful.  The  groans,  coughs,  a-hem's, 
feet  shufflings,  and  paper  pellets  that  filled  the  room  as 
Saint  Elizabeth  sat  down,  even  in  the  principal's  pre- 
sence, were  sweet  balm  to  my  smart  of  envy;  I  did  n't 
care  if  I  did  n't  know  how  to  moralize. 

When  my  teacher  had  visitors  I  was  aware  that  I  was 
the  show  pupil  of  the  class.  I  was  always  made  to  recite, 
my  compositions  were  passed  around,  and  often  I  was 
called  up  on  the  platform  —  oh,  climax  of  exaltation !  — 
to  be  interviewed  by  the  distinguished  strangers;  while 
the  class  took  advantage  of  the  teacher's  distraction,  to 
hold  forbidden  intercourse  on  matters  not  prescribed  in 
the  curriculum.  When  I  returned  to  my  seat,  after  such 
public  audience  with  the  great,  I  looked  to  see  if  Lizzie 
McDee  was  taking  notice;  and  Lizzie,  who  was  a  gener- 


240  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

ous  soul,  her  Sunday-school  airs  notwithstanding,  gen- 
erally smiled,  and  I  forgave  her  her  rhymes. 

Not  but  what  I  paid  a  price  for  my  honors.  With  all 
my  self-possession  I  had  a  certain  capacity  for  shyness. 
Even  when  I  arose  to  recite  before  the  customary  audi- 
ence of  my  class  I  suffered  from  incipient  stage  fright, 
and  my  voice  trembled  over  the  first  few  words.  When 
visitors  were  in  the  room  I  was  even  more  troubled;  and 
when  I  was  made  the  special  object  of  their  attention 
my  triumph  was  marred  by  acute  distress.  If  I  was 
called  up  to  speak  to  the  visitors,  forty  pairs  of  eyes 
pricked  me  in  the  back  as  I  went.  I  stumbled  in  the 
aisle,  and  knocked  down  things  that  were  not  at  all  in 
my  way;  and  my  awkwardness  increasing  my  embarrass- 
ment I  would  gladly  have  changed  places  with  Lizzie  or 
the  bad  boy  in  the  back  row;  anything,  only  to  be  less 
conspicuous.  When  I  found  myself  shaking  hands  with 
an  august  School-Committeeman,  or  a  teacher  from 
New  York,  the  remnants  of  my  self-possession  vanished 
in  awe;  and  it  was  in  a  very  husky  voice  that  I  repeated, 
as  I  was  asked,  my  name,  lineage,  and  personal  history. 
On  the  whole,  I  do  not  think  that  the  School-Committee- 
man  found  a  very  forward  creature  in  the  solemn-faced 
little  girl  with  the  tight  curls  and  the  terrible  red-and- 
green  "plaid." 

These  awful  audiences  did  not  always  end  with  the 
handshaking.  Sometimes  the  great  personages  asked 
me  to  write  to  them,  and  exchanged  addresses  with  me. 
Some  of  these  correspondences  continued  through  years, 
and  were  the  source  of  much  pleasure,  on  one  side  at 
least.  And  Arlington  Street  took  notice  when  I  received 
letters  with  important-looking  or  aristocratic-looking 
letterheads.  Lizzie  McDee  also  took  notice.  I  saw  to  that. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MIRACLES 

It  was  not  always  in  admiration  that  the  finger  was 
pointed  at  me.  One  day  I  found  myself  the  centre  of  an 
excited  group  in  the  middle  of  the  schoolyard,  with  a 
dozen  girls  interrupting  each  other  to  express  their  dis- 
approval of  me.  For  I  had  coolly  told  them,  in  answer 
to  a  question,  that  I  did  not  believe  in  God. 

How  had  I  arrived  at  such  a  conviction?  How  had  I 
come,  from  praying  and  fasting  and  Psalm-singing,  to 
extreme  impiety?  Alas!  my  backsliding  had  cost  me  no 
travail  of  spirit.  Always  weak  in  my  faith,  playing  at 
sanctity  as  I  played  at  soldiers,  just  as  I  was  in  the  mood 
or  not,  I  had  neglected  my  books  of  devotion  and  given 
myself  up  to  profane  literature  at  the  first  opportunity, 
in  Vitebsk;  and  I  never  took  up  my  prayer  book  again. 
On  my  return  to  Polotzk,  America  loomed  so  near  that 
my  imagination  was  fully  occupied,  and  I  did  not  revive 
the  secret  experiments  with  which  I  used  to  test  the  na- 
ture and  intention  of  Deity.  It  was  more  to  me  that  I 
was  going  to  America  than  that  I  might  not  be  going  to 
Heaven.  And  when  we  joined  my  father,  and  I  saw  that 
he  did  not  wear  the  sacred  fringes,  and  did  not  put  on 
the  phylacteries  and  pray,  I  was  neither  surprised  nor 
shocked,  remembering  the  Sabbath  night  when  he  had 
with  his  own  hand  turned  out  the  lamp.  When  I  saw 
him  go  out  to  work  on  Sabbath  exactly  as  on  a  week  day, 
I  understood  why  God  had  not  annihilated  me  with  his 
lightnings  that  time  when  I  purposely  carried  something 


242  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

in  my  pocket  on  Sabbath :  there  was  no  God,  and  there 
was  no  sin.  And  I  ran  out  to  play,  pleased  to  find  that 
I  was  free,  like  other  little  girls  in  the  street,  instead  of 
being  hemmed  about  with  prohibitions  and  obligations 
at  every  step.  And  yet  if  the  golden  truth  of  Judaism  had 
not  been  handed  me  in  the  motley  rags  of  formalism,  I 
might  not  have  been  so  ready  to  put  away  my  religion. 

It  was  Rachel  Goldstein  who  provoked  my  avowal 
of  atheism.  She  asked  if  I  was  n't  going  to  stay  out  of 
school  during  Passover,  and  I  said  no.  Was  n't  I  a  Jew? 
she  wanted  to  know.  No,  I  was  n't;  I  was  a  Freethinker. 
What  was  that?  I  did  n't  believe  in  God.  Rachel  was 
hprrified.  Why,  Kitty  Maloney  believed  in  God,  and 
Kitty  was  only  a  Catholic!  She  appealed  to  Kitty. 

"Kitty  Maloney!  Come  over  here.  Don't  you  believe 
in  God?  —  There,  now,  Mary  An  tin!  —  Mary  An  tin 
says  she  does  n't  believe  in  God ! " 

Rachel  Goldstein's  horror  is  duplicated.  Kitty  Ma- 
loney, who  used  to  mock  Rachel's  Jewish  accent,  in- 
stantly becomes  her  voluble  ally,  and  proceeds  to 
annihilate  me  by  plying  me  with  crucial  questions. 

"You  don't  believe  in  God?  Then  who  made  you, 
MaryAntin?" 

"Nature  made  me." 

"Nature  made  you!  What's  that?" 

"It's  —  everything.  It's  the  trees  —  no,  it's  what 
makes  the  trees  grow.    That  's  what  it  is." 

"But  God  made  the  trees,  Mary  Antin,"  from  Rachel 
and  Kitty  in  chorus.  "Maggie  O'Reilly!  Listen  to 
Mary  Antin.  She  says  there  is  n't  any  God.  She  says 
the  trees  made  her!" 

Rachel  and  Kitty  and  Maggie,  Sadie  and  Annie  and 
Beckie,  made  a  circle  around  me,  and  pressed  me  with 


MIRACLES  243 

questions,  and  mocked  me,  and  threatened  me  with  hell 
flames  and  utter  extinction.  I  held  my  ground  against 
them  all  obstinately  enough,  though  my  argument  was 
exceedingly  lame.  I  glibly  repeated  phrases  I  had  heard 
my  father  use,  but  I  had  no  real  understanding  of  his 
atheistic  doctrines.  I  had  been  surprised  into  this  dis- 
pute. I  had  no  spontaneous  interest  in  the  subject;  my 
mind  was  occupied  with  other  things.  But  as  the  num- 
ber of  my  opponents  grew,  and  I  saw  how  unanimously 
they  condemned  me,  my  indifference  turned  into  a  heat 
of  indignation.  The  actual  point  at  issue  was  as  little  as 
ever  to  me,  but  I  perceived  that  a  crowd  of  Free  Ameri- 
cans were  disputing  the  right  of  a  Fellow  Citizen  to  have 
any  kind  of  God  she  chose.  I  knew,  from  my  father's 
teaching,  that  this  persecution  was  contrary  to  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  United  States,  and  I  held  my  ground  as 
befitted  the  defender  of  a  cause.  George  Washington 
would  not  have  treated  me  as  Rachel  Goldstein  and 
Kitty  Maloney  were  doing!  "This  is  a  free  country,"  I 
reminded  them  in  the  middle  of  the  argument. 

The  excitement  in  the  yard  amounted  to  a  toy  riot. 
When  the  school  bell  rang  and  the  children  began  to 
file  in,  I  stood  out  there  as  long  as  any  of  my  enemies 
remained,  although  it  was  my  habit  to  go  to  my  room 
very  promptly.  And  as  the  foes  of  American  Liberty 
crowded  and  pushed  in  the  line,  whispering  to  those 
who  had  not  heard  that  a  heretic  had  been  discovered  in 
their  midst,  the  teacher  who  kept  the  line  in  the  corridor 
was  obliged  to  scold  and  pull  the  noisy  ones  into  order; 
and  Sadie  Cohen  told  her,  in  tones  of  awe,  what  the 
commotion  was  about. 

Miss  Bland  waited  till  the  children  had  filed  in  be- 
fore she  asked  me,  in  a  tone  encouraging  confidence,  to 


244  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

give  my  version  of  the  story.  This  I  did,  huskily  but 
fearlessly;  and  the  teacher,  who  was  a  woman  of  tact, 
did  not  smile  or  commit  herself  in  any  way.  She  was 
sorry  that  the  children  had  been  rude  to  me,  but  she 
thought  they  would  not  trouble  me  any  more  if  I  let  the 
subject  drop.  She  made  me  understand,  somewhat  as 
Miss  Dillingham  had  done  on  the  occasion  of  my  whis- 
pering during  prayer,  that  it  was  proper  American  con- 
duct to  avoid  religious  arguments  on  school  territory.  I 
felt  honored  by  this  private  initiation  into  the  doctrine 
of  the  separation  of  Church  and  State,  and  I  went  to 
my  seat  with  a  good  deal  of  dignity,  my  alarm  about 
the  safety  of  the  Constitution  allayed  by  the  teacher's 
calmness. 

This  is  not  so  strictly  the  story  of  the  second  genera- 
tion that  I  may  not  properly  give  a  brief  account  of  how 
it  fared  with  my  mother  when  my  father  undertook  to 
purge  his  house  of  superstition.  The  process  of  her  eman- 
cipation, it  is  true,  was  not  obvious  to  me  at  the  time, 
but  what  I  observed  of  her  outward  conduct  has  been 
interpreted  by  my  subsequent  experience;  so  that  to-day 
I  understand  how  it  happens  that  all  the  year  round  my 
mother  keeps  the  same  day  of  rest  as  her  Gentile  neigh- 
bors; but  when  the  ram's  horn  blows  on  the  Day  of 
Atonement,  calling  upon  Israel  to  cleanse  its  heart  from 
sin  and  draw  nearer  to  the  God  of  its  fathers,  her  soul  is 
stirred  as  of  old,  and  she  needs  must  join  in  the  ancient 
service.  It  means,  I  have  come  to  know,  that  she  has 
dropped  the  husk  and  retained  the  kernel  of  Judaism; 
but  years  were  required  for  this  process  of  instinctive 
selection. 

My  father,  in  his  ambition  to  make  Americans  of  us, 
was  rather  headlong  and  strenuous  in  his  methods.  To 


MIRACLES  245 

my  mother,  on  the  eve  of  departure  for  the  New  World, 
he  wrote  boldly  that  progressive  Jews  in  America  did 
not  spend  their  days  in  praying;  and  he  urged  her  to 
leave  her  wig  in  Polotzk,  as  a  first  step  of  progress.  My 
mother,  like  the  majority  of  women  in  the  Pale,  had  all 
her  life  taken  her  religion  on  authority;  so  she  was  only 
fulfilling  her  duty  to  her  husband  when  she  took  his 
hint,  and  set  out  upon  her  journey  in  her  own  hair.  Not 
that  it  was  done  without  reluctance;  the  Jewish  faith 
in  her  was  deeply  rooted,  as  in  the  best  of  Jews  it  always 
is.  The  law  of  the  Fathers  was  binding  to  her,  and  the 
outward  symbols  of  obedience  inseparable  from  the 
spirit.  But  the  breath  of  revolt  against  orthodox  exter- 
nals was  at  this  time  beginning  to  reach  us  in  Polotzk 
from  the  greater  world,  notably  from  America.  Sons 
whose  parents  had  impoverished  themselves  by  paying 
the  fine  for  non-appearance  for  military  duty,  in  order 
to  save  their  darlings  from  the  inevitable  sins  of  violated 
Judaism  while  in  the  service,  sent  home  portraits  of 
themselves  with  their  faces  shaved;  and  the  grieved  old 
fathers  and  mothers,  after  offering  up  special  prayers 
for  the  renegades,  and  giving  charity  in  their  name, 
exhibited  the  significant  portraits  on  their  parlor  tables. 
My  mother's  own  nephew  went  no  farther  than  Vilna, 
ten  hours'  journey  from  Polotzk,  to  learn  to  cut  his 
beard;  and  even  within  our  town  limits  young  women 
of  education  were  beginning  to  reject  the  wig  after 
marriage.  A  notorious  example  was  the  beautiful  daugh- 
ter of  Lozhe  the  Rav,  who  was  not  restrained  by  her 
father's  conspicuous  relation  to  Judaism  from  exhibiting 
her  lovely  black  curls  like  a  maiden;  and  it  was  a  further 
sign  of  the  times  that  the  rav  did  not  disown  his  daugh- 
ter. What  wonder,  then,  that  my  poor  mother,  shaken 


246  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

by  these  foreshado  wings  of  revolution  in  our  midst,  and 
by  the  express  authority  of  her  husband,  gave  up  the 
emblem  of  matrimonial  chastity  with  but  a  passing 
struggle?  Considering  how  the  heavy  burdens  which  she 
had  borne  from  childhood  had  never  allowed  her  time 
to  think  for  herself  at  all,  but  had  obliged  her  always  to 
tread  blindly  in  the  beaten  paths,  I  think  it  greatly  to 
her  credit  that  in  her  puzzling  situation  she  did  not  lose 
her  poise  entirely.  Bred  to  submission,  submit  she  must; 
and  when  she  perceived  a  conflict  of  authorities,  she 
prepared  to  accept  the  new  order  of  things  under  which 
her  children's  future  was  to  be  formed;  wherein  she 
showed  her  native  adaptability,  the  readiness  to  fall 
into  line,  which  is  one  of  the  most  charming  traits  of 
her  gentle,  self-effacing  nature. 

My  father  gave  my  mother  very  little  time  to  adjust 
herself.  He  was  only  three  years  from  the  Old  World 
with  its  settled  prejudices.  Considering  his  education,  he 
had  thought  out  a  good  deal  for  himself,  but  his  line  of 
thinking  had  not  as  yet  brought  him  to  include  woman 
in  the  intellectual  emancipation  for  which  he  himself 
had  been  so  eager  even  in  Russia.  This  was  still  in  the 
day  when  he  was  astonished  to  learn  that  women  had 
written  books  —  had  used  their  minds,  their  imagina- 
tions, unaided.  He  still  rated  the  mental  capacity  of  the 
average  woman  as  only  a  little  above  that  of  the  cattle 
she  tended.  He  held  it  to  be  a  wife's  duty  to  follow  her 
husband  in  all  things.  He  could  do  all  the  thinking  for 
the  family,  he  believed;  and  being  convinced  that  to 
hold  to  the  outward  forms  of  orthodox  Judaism  was  to 
be  hampered  in  the  race  for  Americanization,  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  order  our  family  life  on  unorthodox  lines. 
There  was  no  conscious  despotism  in  this;  it  was  only 


MIRACLES  247 

making  manly  haste  to  realize  an  ideal  the  nobility  of 
which  there  was  no  one  to  dispute. 

My  mother,  as  we  know,  had  not  the  initial  impulse 
to  depart  from  ancient  usage  that  my  father  had  in  his 
habitual  scepticism.  He  had  always  been  a  nonconform- 
ist in  his  heart;  she  bore  lovingly  the  yoke  of  prescribed 
conduct.  Individual  freedom,  to  him,  was  the  only  tol- 
erable condition  of  life;  to  her  it  was  confusion.  My 
mother,  therefore,  gradually  divested  herself,  at  my 
father's  bidding,  of  the  mantle  of  orthodox  observ- 
ance; but  the  process  cost  her  many  a  pang,  because  the 
fabric  of  that  venerable  garment  was  interwoven  with 
the  fabric  of  her  soul. 

My  father  did  not  attempt  to  touch  the  fundamentals 
of  her  faith.  He  certainly  did  not  forbid  her  to  honor 
God  by  loving  her  neighbor,  which  is  perhaps  not  far 
from  being  the  whole  of  Judaism.  If  his  loud  denials  of 
the  existence  of  God  influenced  her  to  reconsider  her 
creed,  it  was  merely  an  incidental  result  of  the  freedom 
of  expression  he  was  so  eager  to  practise,  after  his  life  of 
enforced  hypocrisy.  As  the  opinions  of  a  mere  woman 
on  matters  so  abstract  as  religion  did  not  interest  him 
in  the  least,  he  counted  it  no  particular  triumph  if  he 
observed  that  my  mother  weakened  in  her  faith  as  the 
years  went  by.  He  allowed  her  to  keep  a  Jewish  kitchen 
as  long  as  she  pleased,  but  he  did  not  want  us  children 
to  refuse  invitations  to  the  table  of  our  Gentile  neigh- 
bors. He  would  have  no  bar  to  our  social  intercourse 
with  the  world  around  us,  for  only  by  freely  sharing  the 
life  of  our  neighbors  could  we  come  into  our  full  inherit- 
ance of  American  freedom  and  opportunity.  On  the 
holy  days  he  bought  my  mother  a  ticket  for  the  syna- 
gogue, but  the  children  he  sent  to  school.   On  Sabbath 


US  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

eve  my  mother  might  light  the  consecrated  candles,  but 
he  kept  the  store  open  until  Sunday  morning.  My 
mother  might  believe  and  worship  as  she  pleased,  up  to 
the  point  where  her  orthodoxy  began  to  interfere  with 
the  American  progress  of  the  family. 

The  price  that  all  of  us  paid  for  this  disorganization 
of  our  family  life  has  been  levied  on  every  immigrant 
Jewish  household  where  the  first  generation  clings  to 
the  traditions  of  the  Old  World,  while  the  second  gener- 
ation leads  the  life  of  the  New.  Nothing  more  pitiful 
could  be  written  in  the  annals  of  the  Jews;  nothing  more 
inevitable;  nothing  more  hopeful.  Hopeful,  yes;  alike 
for  the  Jew  and  for  the  country  that  has  given  him 
shelter.  For  Israel  is  not  the  only  party  that  has  put  up 
a  forfeit  in  this  contest.  The  nations  may  well  sit  by  and 
watch  the  struggle,  for  humanity  has  a  stake  in  it.  I  say 
this,  whose  life  has  borne  witness,  whose  heart  is  heavy 
with  revelations  it  has  not  made.  And  I  speak  for  thou- 
sands; oh,  for  thousands! 

My  gray  hairs  are  too  few  for  me  to  let  these  pages 
trespass  the  limit  I  have  set  myself.  That  part  of  my 
life  which  contains  the  climax  of  my  personal  drama  I 
must  leave  to  my  grandchildren  to  record.  My  father 
might  speak  and  tell  how,  in  time,  he  discovered  that  in 
his  first  violent  rejection  of  everything  old  and  estab- 
lished he  cast  from  him  much  that  he  afterwards  missed. 
He  might  tell  to  what  extent  he  later  retraced  his  steps, 
seeking  to  recover  what  he  had  learned  to  value  anew; 
how  it  fared  with  his  avowed  irreligion  when  put  to 
the  extreme  test;  to  what,  in  short,  his  emancipation 
amounted.  And  he,  like  myself,  would  speak  for  thou- 
sands. My  grandchildren,  for  all  I  know,  may  have  a 
graver  task  than  I  have  set  them.   Perhaps  they  may 


MIRACLES  249 

have  to  testify  that  the  faith  of  Israel  is  a  heritage  that 
no  heir  in  the  direct  line  has  the  power  to  alienate  from 
his  successors.  Even  I,  with  my  limited  perspective, 
think  it  doubtful  if  the  conversion  of  the  Jew  to  any 
alien  belief  or  disbelief  is  ever  thoroughly  accomplished. 
What  positive  affirmation  of  the  persistence  of  Judaism 
in  the  blood  my  descendants  may  have  to  make,  I  may 
not  be  present  to  hear. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  state  that  none  of  these 
hints  and  prophecies  troubled  me  at  the  time  when  I 
horrified  the  schoolyard  by  denying  the  existence  of 
God,  on  the  authority  of  my  father;  and  defended  my 
right  to  my  atheism,  on  the  authority  of  the  Constitu- 
tion. I  considered  myself  absolutely,  eternally,  delight- 
fully emancipated  from  the  yoke  of  indefensible  super- 
stitions. I  was  wild  with  indignation  and  pity  when  I 
remembered  how  my  poor  brother  had  been  cruelly 
tormented  because  he  did  not  want  to  sit  in  heder  and 
learn  what  was  after  all  false  or  useless.  I  knew  now 
why  poor  Reb'  Lebe  had  been  unable  to  answer  my 
questions;  it  was  because  the  truth  was  not  whispered 
outside  America.  I  was  very  much  in  love  with  my  en- 
lightenment, and  eager  for  opportunities  to  give  proof 
of  it. 

It  was  Miss  Dillingham,  she  who  helped  me  in  so  many 
ways,  who  unconsciously  put  me  to  an  early  test,  the 
result  of  which  gave  me  a  shock  that  I  did  not  get  over 
for  many  a  day.  She  invited  me  to  tea  one  day,  and  I 
came  in  much  trepidation.  It  was  my  first  entrance  into 
a  genuine  American  household;  my  first  meal  at  a  Gen- 
tile —  yes,  a  Christian  —  board.  Would  I  know  how  to 
behave  properly?  I  do  not  know  whether  I  betrayed  my 
anxiety;  I  am  certain  only  that  I  was  all  eyes  and  ears, 


250  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

that  nothing  should  escape  me  which  might  serve  to 
guide  me.  This,  after  all,  was  a  normal  state  for  me  to 
be  in,  so  I  suppose  I  looked  natural,  no  matter  how 
much  I  stared.  I  had  been  accustomed  to  consider  my 
table  manners  irreproachable,  but  America  was  not 
Polotzk,  as  my  father  was  ever  saying;  so  I  proceeded 
very  cautiously  with  my  spoons  and  forks.  I  was  cun- 
ning enough  to  try  to  conceal  my  uncertainty;  by  being 
just  a  little  bit  slow,  I  did  not  get  to  any  given  spoon 
until  the  others  at  table  had  shown  me  which  it  was. 

All  went  well,  until  a  platter  was  passed  with  a  kind  of 
meat  that  was  strange  to  me.  Some  mischievous  in- 
stinct told  me  that  it  was  ham  —  forbidden  food;  and  I, 
the  liberal,  the  free,  was  afraid  to  touch  it!  I  had  a  ter- 
rible moment  of  surprise,  mortification,  self -contempt ; 
but  I  helped  myself  to  a  slice  of  ham,  nevertheless,  and 
hung  my  head  over  my  plate  to  hide  my  confusion.  I 
was  furious  with  myself  for  my  weakness.  I  to  be  afraid 
of  a  pink  piece  of  pig's  flesh,  who  had  defied  at  least  two 
religions  in  defence  of  free  thought!  And  I  began  to 
reduce  my  ham  to  indivisible  atoms,  determined  to  eat 
more  of  it  than  anybody  at  the  table. 

Alas!  I  learned  that  to  eat  in  defence  of  principles 
was  not  so  easy  as  to  talk.  I  ate,  but  only  a  newly 
abnegated  Jew  can  understand  with  what  squirming, 
what  protesting  of  the  inner  man,  what  exquisite  ab- 
horrence of  myself.  That  Spartan  boy  who  allowed  the 
stolen  fox  hidden  in  his  bosom  to  consume  his  vitals 
rather  than  be  detected  in  the  theft,  showed  no  such 
miracle  of  self-control  as  did  I,  sitting  there  at  my 
friend's  tea-table,  eating  un Jewish  meat. 

And  to  think  that  so  ridiculous  a  thing  as  a  scrap  of 
meat  should  be  the  symbol  and  test  of  things  so  august! 


MIRACLES  251 

To  think  that  in  the  mental  life  of  a  half -grown  child 
should  be  reflected  the  struggles  and  triumphs  of  ages ! 
Over  and  over  and  over  again  I  discover  that  I  am  a 
wonderful  thing,  being  human;  that  I  am  the  image  of 
the  universe,  being  myself;  that  I  am  the  repository  of 
all  the  wisdom  in  the  world,  being  alive  and  sane  at  the 
beginning  of  this  twentieth  century.  The  heir  of  the 
ages  am  I,  and  all  that  has  been  is  in  me,  and  shall 
continue  to  be  in  my  immortal  self. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

a  child's  paradise 

All  this  while  that  I  was  studying  and  exploring  in 
the  borderland  between  the  old  life  and  the  new;  leaping 
at  conclusions,  and  sometimes  slipping;  finding  inspira- 
tion in  common  things,  and  interpretations  in  dumb 
things;  eagerly  scaling  the  ladder  of  learning,  my  eyes 
on  star-diademmed  peaks  of  ambition;  building  up 
friendships  that  should  support  my  youth  and  enrich 
my  womanhood;  learning  to  think  much  of  myself,  and 
much  more  of  my  world,  —  while  I  was  steadily  gather- 
ing in  my  heritage,  sowed  in  the  dim  past,  and  ripened 
in  the  sun  of  my  own  day,  what  was  my  sister  doing? 

Why,  what  she  had  always  done :  keeping  close  to  my 
mother's  side  on  the  dreary  marches  of  a  humdrum  life; 
sensing  sweet  gardens  of  forbidden  joy,  but  never  turn- 
ing from  the  path  of  duty.  I  cannot  believe  but  that  her 
sacrifices  tasted  as  dust  and  ashes  to  her  at  times;  for 
Frieda  was  a  mere  girl,  whose  childhood,  on  the  whole, 
had  been  gray,  while  her  appetite  for  happy  things  was 
as  great  as  any  normal  girl's.  She  had  a  fine  sense  for 
what  was  best  in  the  life  about  her,  though  she  could  not 
articulate  her  appreciation.  She  longed  to  possess  the 
good  things,  but  her  position  in  the  family  forbidding 
possession,  she  developed  a  talent  for  vicarious  enjoy- 
ment which  I  never  in  this  life  hope  to  imitate.  And  her 
simple  mind  did  not  busy  itself  with  self -analysis.  She 
did  not  even  know  why  she  was  happy;  she  thought  life 
was  good  to  her.  Still,  there  must  have  been  moments 


A  CHILD'S  PARADISE  253 

when  she  perceived  that  the  finer  things  were  not  in 
themselves  unattainable,  but  were  kept  from  her  by  a 
social  tyranny.  This  I  can  only  surmise,  as  in  our  daily 
intercourse  she  never  gave  a  sign  of  discontent. 

We  continued  to  have  part  of  our  life  in  common  for 
some  time  after  she  went  to  work.  We  formed  ourselves 
into  an  evening  school,  she  and  I  and  the  two  young- 
sters, for  the  study  of  English  and  arithmetic.  As  soon 
as  the  supper  dishes  were  put  away,  we  gathered  around 
the  kitchen  table,  with  books  borrowed  from  school, 
and  pencils  supplied  by  my  father  with  eager  willingness. 
I  was  the  teacher,  the  others  the  diligent  pupils;  and  the 
earnestness  with  which  we  labored  was  worthy  of  the 
great  things  we  meant  to  achieve.  Whether  the  results 
were  commensurate  with  our  efforts  I  cannot  say.  I 
only  know  that  Frieda's  cheeks  flamed  with  the  excite- 
ment of  reading  English  monosyllables;  and  her  eyes 
shone  like  stars  on  a  moonless  night  when  I  explained  to 
her  how  she  and  I  and  George  Washington  were  Fellow 
Citizens  together. 

Inspired  by  our  studious  evenings,  what  Frieda 
Antin  would  not  be  glad  to  sit  all  day  bent  over  the 
needle,  that  the  family  should  keep  on  its  feet,  and 
Mary  continue  at  school?  The  morning  ride  on  the 
ferryboat,  when  spring  winds  dimpled  the  river,  may 
have  stirred  her  heart  with  nameless  longings,  but  when 
she  took  her  place  at  the  machine  her  lot  was  glorified 
to  her,  and  she  wanted  to  sing;  for  the  girls,  the  foreman, 
the  boss,  all  talked  about  Mary  Antin,  whose  poems 
were  printed  in  an  American  newspaper.  Wherever  she 
went  on  her  humble  business,  she  was  sure  to  hear 
her  sister's  name.  For,  with  characteristic  loyalty,  the 
whole  Jewish  community  claimed  kinship  with  me,  sim- 


254  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

ply  because  I  was  a  Jew;  and  they  made  much  of  my 
small  triumphs,  and  pointed  to  me  with  pride,  just  as 
they  always  do  when  a  Jew  distinguishes  himself  in  any 
worthy  way.  Frieda,  going  home  from  work  at  sunset, 
when  rosy  buds  beaded  the  shining  stems,  may  have  felt 
the  weariness  of  those  who  toilfor  bread;  but  when  we 
opened  our  books  after  supper,  her  spirit  revived  afresh, 
and  it  was  only  when  the  lamp  began  to  smoke  that  she 
thought  of  taking  rest. 

At  bedtime  she  and  I  chatted  as  we  used  to  do  when 
we  were  little  girls  in  Polotzk;  only  now,  instead  of 
closing  our  eyes  to  see  imaginary  wonders,  according  to 
a  bedtime  game  of  ours,  we  exchanged  anecdotes  about 
the  marvellous  adventures  of  our  American  life.  My 
contributions  on  these  occasions  were  boastful  accounts, 
I  have  no  doubt,  of  what  I  did  at  school,  and  in  the 
company  of  school-committee  men,  editors,  and  other 
notables;  and  Frieda's  delight  in  my  achievements  was 
the  very  flower  of  her  fine  sympathy.  As  formerly,  when 
I  had  been  naughty  and  I  invited  her  to  share  in  my 
repentance,  she  used  to  join  me  in  spiritual  humility 
and  solemnly  dedicate  herself  to  a  better  life;  so  now, 
when  I  was  full  of  pride  and  ambition,  she,  too,  felt  the 
crown  on  her  brows,  and  heard  the  applause  of  future 
generations  murmuring  in  her  ear.  And  so  partaking 
of  her  sister's  .glory,  what  Frieda  Antin  would  not  say 
that  her  portion  was  sufficient  reward  for  a  youth  of 
toil? 

I  did  not,  like  my  sister,  earn  my  bread  in  those  days; 
but  let  us  say  that  I  earned  my  salt,  by  sweeping, 
scrubbing,  and  scouring,  on  Saturdays,  when  there  was 
no  school.  My  mother's  housekeeping  was  necessarily 
irregular,  as  she  was  pretty  constantly  occupied  in  the 


A  CHILD'S   PARADISE  255 

store;  so  there  was  enough  for  us  children  to  do  to  keep 
the  bare  rooms  shining.  Even  here  Frieda  did  the 
lion's  share;  it  used  to  take  me  all  Saturday  to  accom- 
plish what  Frieda  would  do  with  half  a  dozen  turns  of 
her  capable  hands.  I  did  not  like  housework,  but  I  loved 
order;  so  I  polished  windows  with  a  will,  and  even  got 
some  fun  out  of  scrubbing,  by  laying  out  the  floor  in 
patterns  and  tracing  them  all  around  the  room  in  a 
lively  flurry  of  soapsuds. 

t  There  is  a  joy  that  comes  from  doing  common  things 
well,  especially  if  they  seem  hard  to  us.  When  I  faced  a 
day's  housework  I  was  half  paralyzed  with  a  sense  of 
inability,  and  I  wasted  precious  minutes  walking  around 
it,  to  see  what  a  very  hard  task  I  had.  But  having 
pitched  in  and  conquered,  it  gave  me  an  exquisite 
pleasure  to  survey  my  work.  My  hair  tousled  and  my 
dressTtucked  up,  streaked  arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  I 
would  step  on  my  heels  over  the  damp,  clean  boards, 
and  pass  my  hand  over  chair  rounds  and  table  legs,  to 
prove  that  no  dust  was  left.  I  could  not  wait  to  put  my 
dress  in  order  before  running  out  into  the  street  to  see 
how  my  windows  shone.  Every  workman  who  carries  a 
dinner  pail  has  these  moments  of  keen  delight  in  the 
product  of  his  drudgery.  Men  of  genius,  likewise,  in 
their  hours  of  relaxation  from  their  loftier  tasks,  prove 
this  universal  rule.  I  know  a  man  who  fills  a  chair  at  a 
great  university.  I  have  seen  him  hold  a  roomful  of 
otherwise  restless  youths  spellbound  for  an  hour,  while 
he  discoursed  about  the  respective  inhabitants  of  the 
earth  and  sea  at  a  time  when  nothing  walked  on  fewer 
than  four  legs.  And  I  have  seen  this  scholar,  his  pon- 
derous tomes  shelved  for  a  space,  turning  over  and  over 
with  cherishing  hands  a  letter-box  that  he  had  made  out 


256  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

of  card-board  and  paste,  and  exhibiting  it  proudly  to 
his  friends.  For  the  hand  was  the  first  instrument  of 
labor,  that  distinctive  accomplishment  by  which  man 
finally  raised  himself  above  his  cousins,  the  lower  ani- 
mals; and  a  respect  for  the  work  of  the  hand  survives 
as  an  instinct  in  all  of  us. 

The  stretch  of  weeks  from  June  to  September,  when 
the  schools  were  closed,  would  have  been  hard  to  fill  in 
had  it  not  been  for  the  public  library.  At  first  I  made 
myself  a  calendar  of  the  vacation  months,  and  every 
morning  I  tore  off  a  day,  and  comforted  myself  with  the 
decreasing  number  of  vacation  days.  But  after  I  dis- 
covered the  public  library  I  was  not  impatient  for  the 
reopening  of  school.  The  library  did  not  open  till  one 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  each  reader  was  allowed 
to  take  out  only  one  book  at  a  time.  Long  before  one 
o'clock  I  was  to  be  seen  on  the  library  steps,  waiting 
for  the  door  of  paradise  to  open.  I  spent  hours  in  the 
reading-room,  pleased  with  the  atmosphere  of  books, 
with  the  order  and  quiet  of  the  place,  so  unlike  anything 
on  Arlington  Street.  The  sense  of  these  things  per- 
meated my  consciousness  even  when  I  was  absorbed  in  a 
book,  just  as  the  rustle  of  pages  turned  and  the  tiptoe 
tread  of  the  librarian  reached  my  ear,  without  distract- 
ing my  attention.  Anything  so  wonderful  as  a  library 
had  never  been  in  my  life.  It  was  even  better  than 
school  in  some  ways.  One  could  read  and  read,  and 
learn  and  learn,  as  fast  as  one  knew  how,  without  being 
obliged  to  stop  for  stupid  little  girls  and  inattentive 
little  boys  to  catch  up  with  the  lesson.  When  I  went 
home  from  the  library  I  had  a  book  under  my  arm;  and 
I  would  finish  it  before  the  library  opened  next  day,  no 
matter  till  what  hours  of  the  night  I  burned  my  little  lamp. 


A  CHILD'S  PARADISE  257 

What  books  did  I  read  so  diligently?  Pretty  nearly 
everything  that  came  to  my  hand.  I  dare  say  the 
librarian  helped  me  select  my  books,  but,  curiously 
enough,  I  do  not  remember.  Something  must  have 
directed  me,  for  I  read  a  great  many  of  the  books  that 
are  written  for  children.  Of  these  I  remember  with  the 
greatest  delight  Louisa  Alcott's  stories.  A  less  attract- 
ive series  of  books  was  of  the  Sunday  School  type.  In 
volume  after  volume  a  very  naughty  little  girl  by  the 
name  of  Lulu  was  always  going  into  tempers,  that  her 
father  might  have  opportunity  to  lecture  her  and  point 
to  her  angelic  little  sister,  Gracie,  as  an  example  of  what 
she  should  be;  after  which  they  all  felt  better  and 
prayed.  Next  to  Louisa  Alcott's  books  in  my  esteem 
were  boys'  books  of  adventure,  many  of  them  by  Ho- 
ratio Alger;  and  I  read  all,  I  suppose,  of  the  Rollo  books, 
by  Jacob  Abbott. 

But  that  was  not  all.  I  read  every  kind  of  printed 
rubbish  that  came  into  the  house,  by  design  or  accident. 
A  weekly  story  paper  of  a  worse  than  worthless  char- 
acter, that  circulated  widely  in  our  neighborhood  be- 
cause subscribers  were  rewarded  with  a  premium  of  a 
diamond  ring,  warranted  I  don't  know  how  many  karats, 
occupied  me  for  hours.  The  stories  in  this  paper  re- 
sembled, in  breathlessness  of  plot,  abundance  of  horrors, 
and  improbability  of  characters,  the  things  I  used  to 
read  in  Vitebsk.  The  text  was  illustrated  by  frequent 
pictures,  in  which  the  villain  generally  had  his  hands 
on  the  heroine's  throat,  while  the  hero  was  bursting  in 
through  a  graceful  drapery  to  the  rescue  of  his  beloved. 
If  a  bundle  came  into  the  house  wrapped  in  a  stained  old 
newspaper,  I  laboriously  smoothed  out  the  paper  and 
read  it  through.   I  enjoyed  it  all,  and  found  fault  with 


258  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

nothing  that  I  read.  And,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Vitebsk 
readings,  I  cannot  find  that  I  suffered  any  harm.  Of 
course,  reading  so  many  better  books,  there  came  a  time 
when  the  diamond-ring  story  paper  disgusted  me;  but  in 
the  beginning  my  appetite  for  print  was  so  enormous 
that  I  could  let  nothing  pass  through  my  hands  unread, 
while  my  taste  was  so  crude  that  nothing  printed  could 
offend  me. 

Good  reading  matter  came  into  the  house  from  one 
other  source  besides  the  library.  The  Yiddish  news- 
papers of  the  day  were  excellent,  and  my  father  sub- 
scribed to  the  best  of  them.  Since  that  time  Yiddish 
journalism  has  sadly  degenerated,  through  imitation  of 
the  vicious  "yellow  journals"  of  the  American  press. 

There  was  one  book  in  the  library  over  which  I  pored 
very  often,  and  that  was  the  encyclopaedia.  I  turned 
usually  to  the  names  of  famous  people,  beginning,  of 
course,  with  George  Washington.  Oftenest  of  all  I  read 
the  biographical  sketches  of  my  favorite  authors,  and 
felt  that  the  worthies  must  have  been  glad  to  die  just  to 
have  their  names  and  histories  printed  out  in  the  book 
of  fame.  It  seemed  to  me  the  apotheosis  of  glory  to  be 
even  briefly  mentioned  in  an  encyclopaedia.  And  there 
grew  in  me  an  enormous  ambition  that  devoured  all  my 
other  ambitions,  which  was  no  less  than  this:  that  I 
should  live  to  know  that  after  my  death  my  name  would 
surely  be  printed  in  the  encyclopaedia.  It  was  such  a 
prodigious  thing  to  expect  that  I  kept  the  idea  a  secret 
even  from  myself,  just  letting  it  lie  where  it  sprouted,  in 
an  unexplored  corner  of  my  busy  brain.  But  it  grew  on 
me  in  spite  of  myself,  till  finally  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  study  out  the  exact  place  in  the  ency- 
clopaedia where  my  name  would  belong.   I  saw  that  it 


A  CHILD'S   PARADISE  259 

would  come  not  far  from  "Alcott,  Louisa  M. ";  and  I 
covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  to  hide  the  silly,  base- 
less joy  in  it.  I  practised  saying  my  name  in  the  ency- 
clopaedic form,  "An tin,  Mary";  and  I  realized  that  it 
sounded  chopped  off,  and  wondered  if  I  might  not  annex 
a  middle  initial.  I  wanted  to  ask  my  teacher  about  it, 
but  I  was  afraid  I  might  betray  my  reasons.  For,  in- 
fatuated though  I  was  with  the  idea  of  the  greatness  I 
might  live  to  attain,  I  knew  very  well  that  thus  far 
my  claims  to  posthumous  fame  were  ridiculously  un- 
founded, and  I  did  not  want  to  be  laughed  at  for  my 
vanity. 

Spirit  of  all  childhood !  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  for  so 
lightly  betraying  a  child's  dream -secrets.  I  that  smile  so 
scoffingly  to-day  at  the  unsophisticated  child  that  was 
myself,  have  I  found  any  nobler  thing  in  life  than  my 
own  longing  to  be  noble?  Would  I  not  rather  be  con- 
sumed by  ambitions  that  can  never  be  realized  than  live 
in  stupid  acceptance  of  my  neighbor's  opinion  of  me? 
The  statue  in  the  public  square  is  less  a  portrait  of  a 
mortal  individual  than  a  symbol  of  the  immortal  aspira- 
tion of  humanity.  So  do  not  laugh  at  the  little  boy 
playing  at  soldiers,  if  he  tells  you  he  is  going  to  hew 
the  world  into  good  behavior  when  he  gets  to  be  a  man. 
And  do,  by  all  means,  write  my  name  in  the  book  of 
fame,  saying,  She  was  one  who  aspired.  For  that,  in 
condensed  form,  is  the  story  of  the  lives  of  the  great. 

Summer  days  are  long,  and  the  evenings,  we  know,  are 
as  long  as  the  lamp-wick.  So,  with  all  my  reading,  I  had 
time  to  play;  and,  with  all  my  studiousness,  I  had  the 
will  to  play.  My  favorite  playmates  were  boys.  It  was 
but  mild  fun  to  play  theatre  in  Bessie  Finklestein's  back 


260  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

yard,  even  if  I  had  leading  parts,  which  I  made  impres- 
sive by  recitations  in  Russian,  no  word  of  which  was 
intelligible  to  my  audience.  It  was  far  better  sport  to 
play  hide-and-seek  with  the  boys,  for  I  enjoyed  the  use 
of  my  limbs  —  what  there  was  of  them.  I  was  so  often 
reproached  and  teased  for  being  little,  that  it  gave  me 
great  satisfaction  to  beat  a  five-foot  boy  to  the  goal. 

Once  a  great,  hulky  colored  boy,  who  was  the  torment 
of  the  neighborhood,  treated  me  roughly  while  I  was 
playing  on  the  street.  My  father,  determined  to  teach 
the  rascal  a  lesson  for  once,  had  him  arrested  and 
brought  to  court.  The  boy  was  locked  up  overnight,  and 
he  emerged  from  his  brief  imprisonment  with  a  respect 
for  the  rights  and  persons  of  his  neighbors.  But  the 
moral  of  this  incident  lies  not  herein.  What  interested 
me  more  than  my  revenge  on  a  bully  was  what  I  saw  of 
the  way  in  which  justice  was  actually  administered  in 
the  United  States.  Here  we  were  gathered  in  the  little 
courtroom,  bearded  Arlington  Street  against  wool- 
headed  Arlington  Street;  accused  and  accuser,  witnesses, 
sympathizers,  sight-seers,  and  all.  Nobody  cringed, 
nobody  was  bullied,  nobody  lied  who  did  n't  want  to. 
We  were  all  free,  and  all  treated  equally,  just  as  it  said 
in  the  Constitution!  The  evil-doer  was  actually  pun- 
ished, and  not  the  victim,  as  might  very  easily  happen  in 
a  similar  case  in  Russia.  "Liberty  and  justice  for  all." 
Three  cheers  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue! 

There  was  one  occasion  in  the  week  when  I  was  ever 
willing  to  put  away  my  book,  no  matter  how  entranc- 
ing were  its  pages.  That  was  on  Saturday  night,  when 
Bessie  Finklestein  called  for  me;  and  Bessie  and  I,  with 
arms  entwined,  called  for  Sadie  Rabino witch;  and 
Bessie  and  Sadie  and  I,  still  further  entwined,  called  for 


A  CHILD'S   PARADISE  261 

Annie  Reilly;  and  Bessie,  etc.,  etc.,  inextricably  wound 
up,  marched  up  Broadway,  and  took  possession  of  all 
we  saw,  heard,  guessed,  or  desired,  from  end  to  end  of 
that  main  thoroughfare  of  Chelsea. 

Parading  all  abreast,  as  many  as  we  were,  only  break- 
ing ranks  to  let  people  pass;  leaving  the  imprints  of  our 
noses  and  fingers  on  plate-glass  windows  ablaze  with 
electric  lights  and  alluring  with  display;  inspecting  tons 
of  cheap  candy,  to  find  a  few  pennies'  worth  of  the  most 
enduring  kind,  the  same  to  be  sucked  and  chewed  by 
the  company,  turn  and  turn  about,  as  we  continued  our 
promenade;  loitering  wherever  a  crowd  gathered,  or 
running  for  a  block  or  so  to  cheer  on  the  fire-engine  or 
police  ambulance;  getting  into  everybody's  way,  and 
just  keeping  clear  of  serious  mischief,  —  we  were  only 
girls,  —  we  enjoyed  ourselves  as  only  children  can  whose 
fathers  keep  a  basement  grocery  store,  whose  mothers 
do  their  own  washing,  and  whose  sisters  operate  a  ma- 
chine for  five  dollars  a  week.  Had  we  been  boys,  I  sup- 
pose Bessie  and  Sadie  and  the  rest  of  us  would  have 
been  a  "gang,"  and  would  have  popped  into  the  Chinese 
laundry  to  tease  "Chinky  Chinaman,"  and  been  chased 
by  the  "cops"  from  comfortable  doorsteps,  and  had  a 
"bully"  time  of  it.  Being  what  we  were,  we  called  our- 
selves a  "set,"  and  we  had  a  "lovely  "  time,  as  people  who 
passed  us  on  Broadway  could  not  fail  to  see.  And  hear. 
For  we  were  at  the  giggling  age,  and  Broadway  on  Satur- 
day night  was  full  of  giggles  for  us.  We  stayed  out  till 
all  hours,  too;  for  Arlington  Street  had  no  strict  domes- 
tic programme,  not  even  in  the  nursery,  the  inmates  of 
which  were  as  likely  to  be  found  in  the  gutter  as  in  their 
cots,  at  any  time  this  side  of  one  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
,    There  was  an  element  in  my  enjoyment  that  was 


262  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

yielded  neither  by  the  sights,  the  adventures,  nor  the 
chewing-candy.  I  had  a  keen  feeling  for  the  sociability 
of  the  crowd.  All  plebeian  Chelsea  was  abroad,  and  a 
bourgeois  population  is  nowhere  unneighborly.  Women 
shapeless  with  bundles,  their  hats  awry  over  thin,  eager 
faces,  gathered  in  knots  on  the  edge  of  the  curb,  boasting 
of  their  bargains.  Little  girls  in  curlpapers  and  little 
boys  in  brimless  hats  clung  to  their  skirts,  whining  for 
pennies,  only  to  be  silenced  by  absent-minded  cuffs. 
A  few  disconsolate  fathers  strayed  behind  these  family 
groups,  the  rest  being  distributed  between  the  barber 
shops  and  the  corner  lamp-posts.  I  understood  these 
people,  being  one  of  them,  and  I  liked  them,  and  I  found 
it  all  delightfully  sociable. 

Saturday  night  is  the  workman's  wife's  night,  but 
that  does  not  entirely  prevent  my  lady  from  going 
abroad,  if  only  to  leave  an  order  at  the  florist's.  So  it 
happened  thatBellingham  Hill  and  Washington  Avenue, 
the  aristocratic  sections  of  Chelsea,  mingled  with  Ar- 
lington Street  on  Broadway,  to  the  further  enhancement 
of  my  enjoyment  of  the  occasion.  For  I  always  loved  a 
mixed  crowd.  I  loved  the  contrasts,  the  high  lights  and 
deep  shadows,  and  the  gradations  that  connect  the  two, 
and  make  all  life  one.  I  saw  many,  many  things  that  I 
was  not  aware  of  seeing  at  the  time.  I  only  found  out 
afterwards  what  treasures  my  brain  had  stored  up, 
when,  coming  to  the  puzzling  places  in  life,  light  and 
meaning  would  suddenly  burst  on  me,  the  hidden  fruit 
of  some  experience  that  had  not  impressed  me  at  the 
time. 

How  many  times,  I  wonder,  did  I  brush  past  my  des- 
tiny on  Broadway,  foolishly  staring  after  it,  instead  of 
going  home  to  pray?   I  wonder  did  a  stranger  collide 


A  CHILD'S   PARADISE  263 

with  me,  and  put  me  patiently  out  of  his  way,  wonder- 
ing why  such  a  mite  was  not  at  home  and  abed  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  never  dreaming  that  one  day 
he  might  have  to  reckon  with  me?  Did  some  one  smile 
down  on  my  childish  glee,  I  wonder,  unwarned  of  a  day 
when  we  should  weep  together?  I  wonder  —  I  wonder. 
A  million  threads  of  life  and  love  and  sorrow  was  the 
common  street;  and  whether  we  would  or  not,  we  en- 
tangled ourselves  in  a  common  maze,  without  paying 
the  homage  of  a  second  glance  to  those  who  would  some 
day  master  us;  too  dull  to  pick  that  face  from  out  the 
crowd  which  one  day  would  bend  over  us  in  love  or  pity 
or  remorse.  What  company  of  skipping,  laughing  little 
girls  is  to  be  reproached  for  careless  hours,  when  men  and 
women  on  every  side  stepped  heedlessly  into  the  traps 
of  fate?  Small  sin  it  was  to  annoy  my  neighbor  by  get- 
ting in  his  way,  as  I  stared  over  my  shoulder,  if  a  grown 
man  knew  no  better  than  to  drop  a  word  in  passing  that 
might  turn  the  course  of  another's  life,  as  a  boulder 
rolled  down  from  the  mountain-side  deflects  the  current 
of  a  brook. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MANNA 

So  went  the  life  in  Chelsea  for  the  space  of  a  year  or 
so.  Then  my  father,  finding  a  discrepancy  between  his 
assets  and  liabilities  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  ledger, 
once  more  struck  tent,  collected  his  flock,  and  set  out 
in  search  of  richer  pastures. 

There  was  a  charming  simplicity  about  these  pro- 
ceedings. Here  to-day,  apparently  rooted;  there  to- 
morrow, and  just  as  much  at  home.  Another  base- 
ment grocery,  with  a  freshly  painted  sign  over  the 
door;  the  broom  in  the  corner,  the  loaf  on  the  table  — 
these  things  made  home  for  us.  There  were  rather 
more  Negroes  on  Wheeler  Street,  in  the  lower  South 
End  of  Boston,  than  there  had  been  on  Arlington  Street, 
which  promised  more  numerous  outstanding  accounts; 
but  they  were  a  neighborly  folk,  and  they  took  us  stran- 
gers in  —  sometimes  very  badly.  Then  there  was  the 
school  three  blocks  away,  where  "America"  was  sung  to 
the  same  tune  as  in  Chelsea,  and  geography  was  made  as 
dark  a  mystery.  It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  at  home. 

And  presently,  lest  anything  be  lacking  to  our  domes- 
tic bliss,  there  was  a  new  baby  in  a  borrowed  crib;  and 
little  Dora  had  only  a  few  more  turns  to  take  with  her  bat- 
tered doll  carriage  before  a  life-size  vehicle  with  a  more 
animated  dolly  was  turned  over  to  her  constant  care. 

The  Wheeler  Street  neighborhood  is  not  a  place  where 
a  refined  young  lady  would  care  to  find  herself  alone, 
even  in  the  cheery  daylight.    If  she  came  at  all,  she 


WHEELER  STREET,  IN  THE  LOWER  SOUTH  END  OF  BOSTON 


MANNA  265 

would  be  attended  by  a  trusty  escort.  She  would  not 
get  too  close  to  people  on  the  doorsteps,  and  she  would 
shrink  away  in  disgust  and  fear  from  a  blear-eyed 
creature  careering  down  the  sidewalk  on  many-jointed 
legs.  The  delicate  damsel  would  hasten  home  to  wash 
and  purify  and  perfume  herself  till  the  foul  contact  of 
Wheeler  Street  was  utterly  eradicated,  and  her  wonted 
purity  restored.  And  I  do  not  blame  her.  I  only  wish 
that  she  would  bring  a  little  soap  and  water  and  per- 
fumery into  Wheeler  Street  next  time  she  comes;  for 
some  people  there  may  be  smothering  in  the  filth  which 
they  abhor  as  much  as  she,  but  from  which  they  cannot, 
like  her,  run  away. 

Many  years  after  my  escape  from  Wheeler  Street  I 
returned  to  see  if  the  place  was  as  bad  as  I  remembered  it. 
I  found  the  narrow  street  grown  even  narrower,  the 
sidewalk  not  broad  enough  for  two  to  walk  abreast,  the 
gutter  choked  with  dust  and  refuse,  the  dingy  row  of 
tenements  on  either  side  unspeakably  gloomy.  I  dis- 
covered, what  I  had  not  realized  before,  that  Wheeler 
Street  was  a  crooked  lane  connecting  a  corner  saloon  on 
Shawmut  Avenue  with  a  block  of  houses  of  ill  repute  on 
Corning  Street.  It  had  been  the  same  in  my  day,  but  I 
had  not  understood  much,  and  I  lived  unharmed. 

On  this  later  visit  I  walked  slowly  up  one  side  of  the 
street,  and  down  the  other,  remembering  many  things. 
It  was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  sounds  of 
squabbling  coming  through  doors  and  windows  in- 
formed my  experienced  ear  that  a  part  of  Wheeler 
Street  was  going  to  bed.  The  grocery  store  in  the  base- 
ment of  Number  11  —  my  father's  old  store  —  was  still 
open  for  business;  and  in  the  gutter  in  front  of  the  store, 
to  be  sure,  was  a  happy  baby,  just  as  there  used  to  be. 


266    ,  THE   PROMISED  LAND 

I  was  not  alone  on  this  tour  of  inspection.  I  was  at- 
tended by  a  trusty  escort.  But  I  brought  soap  and 
water  with  me.   I  am  applying  them  now. 

I  found  no  fault  with  Wheeler  Street  when  I  was 
fourteen  years  old.  On  the  contrary,  I  pronounced  it 
good.  We  had  never  lived  so  near  the  car  tracks  before, 
and  I  delighted  in  the  moonlike  splendor  of  the  arc  lamp 
just  in  front  of  the  saloon.  The  space  illumined  by  this 
lamp  and  enlivened  by  the  passage  of  many  thirsty  souls 
was  the  favorite  playground  for  Wheeler  Street  youth. 
On  our  street  there  was  not  room  to  turn  around;  here 
the  sidewalk  spread  out  wider  as  it  swung  around  to 
Shawmut  Avenue. 

I  played  with  the  boys  by  preference,  as  in  Chelsea.  I 
learned  to  cut  across  the  tracks  in  front  of  an  oncoming 
car,  and  it  was  great  fun  to  see  the  motorman's  angry 
face  turn  scared,  when  he  thought  I  was  going  to  be 
shaved  this  time  sure.  It  was  amusing,  too,  to  watch 
the  side  door  of  the  saloon,  which  opened  right  opposite 
the  grocery  store,  and  see  a  drunken  man  put  out  by 
the  bartender.  The  fellow  would  whine  so  comically, 
and  cling  to  the  doorpost  so  like  a  damp  leaf  to  a  twig, 
and  blubber  so  like  a  red-faced  baby,  that  it  was  really 
funny  to  see  him. 

And  there  was  Morgan  Chapel.  It  was  worth  com- 
ing to  Wheeler  Street  just  for  that.  All  the  children  of 
the  neighborhood,  except  the  most  rowdyish,  flocked 
to  Morgan  Chapel  at  least  once  a  week.  This  was 
on  Saturday  evening,  when  a  free  entertainment  was 
given,  consisting  of  music,  recitations,  and  other  parlor 
accomplishments.  The  performances  were  exceedingly 
artistic,  according  to  the  impartial  judgment  of  juve- 
nile Wheeler  Street.  I  can  speak  with  authority  for  the 


MANNA  267 

crowd  of  us  from  Number  11.  We  hung  upon  the  lips  of 
the  beautiful  ladies  who  read  or  sang  to  us;  and  they 
in  turn  did  their  best,  recognizing  the  quality  of  our 
approval.  We  admired  the  miraculously  clean  gentle- 
men who  sang  or  played,  as  heartily  as  we  applauded 
their  performance.  Sometimes  the  beautiful  ladies  were 
accompanied  by  ravishing  little  girls  who  stood  up  in  a 
glory  of  golden  curls,  frilled  petticoats,  and  silk  stock- 
ings, to  recite  pathetic  or  comic  pieces,  with  trained 
expression  and  practised  gestures  that  seemed  to  us  the 
perfection  of  the  elocutionary  art.  We  were  all  a  little 
bit  stage-struck  after  these  entertainments;  but  what 
was  more,  we  were  genuinely  moved  by  the  glimpses  of 
a  fairer  world  than  ours  which  we  caught  through  the 
music  and  poetry;  the  world  in  which  the  beautiful 
ladies  dwelt  with  the  fairy  children  and  the  clean 
gentlemen. 

Brother  Hotchkins,  who  managed  these  entertain- 
ments, knew  what  he  was  there  for.  His  programmes 
were  masterly.  Classics  of  the  lighter  sort  were  judi- 
ciously interspersed  with  the  favorite  street  songs  of  the 
day.  Nothing  that  savored  of  the  chapel  was  there:  the 
hour  was  honestly  devoted  to  entertainment.  The  total 
effect  was  an  exquisitely  balanced  compound  of  pleasure, 
wonder,  and  longing.  Knock-kneed  men  with  purple 
noses,  bristling  chins,  and  no  collars,  who  slouched  in 
sceptically  and  sat  tentatively  on  the  edge  of  the  rear 
settees  at  the  beginning  of  the  concert,  moved  nearer 
the  front  as  the  programme  went  on,  and  openly  joined 
in  the  applause  at  the  end.  Scowling  fellows  who  came 
in  with  defiant  faces  occasionally  slunk  out  shamefaced; 
and  both  the  knock-kneed  and  the  defiant  sometimes 
remained  to  hear  Brother  Tompkins  pray  and  preach. 


268  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

And  it  was  all  due  to  Brother  Hotchkins's  masterly 
programme.  The  children  behaved  very  well,  for  the 
most  part;  the  few  "toughs"  who  came  in  on  purpose 
to  make  trouble  were  promptly  expelled  by  Brother 
Hotchkins  and  his  lieutenants. 

I  could  not  help  admiring  Brother  Hotchkins,  he  was 
so  eminently  efficient  in  every  part  of  the  hall,  at  every 
stage  of  the  proceedings.  I  always  believed  that  he  was 
the  author  of  the  alluring  notices  that  occupied  the 
bulletin  board  every  Saturday,  though  I  never  knew 
it  for  a  fact.  The  way  he  handled  the  bad  boys  was 
masterly.  The  way  he  introduced  the  performers  was 
inimitable.  The  way  he  did  everything  was  the  best 
way.  And  yet  I  did  not  like  Brother  Hotchkins.  I  could 
not.  He  was  too  slim,  too  pale,  too  fair.  His  voice  was 
too  encouraging,  his  smile  was  too  restrained.  The  man 
was  a  missionary,  and  it  stuck  out  all  over  him.  I  could 
not  abide  a  missionary.  That  was  the  Jew  in  me,  the 
European  Jew,  trained  by  the  cruel  centuries  of  his 
outcast  existence  to  distrust  any  one  who  spoke  of  God 
by  any  other  name  than  Adonai.  But  I  should  have 
resented  the  suggestion  that  inherited  distrust  was  the 
cause  of  my  dislike  for  good  Brother  Hotchkins;  for  I 
considered  myself  freed  from  racial  prejudices,  by  the 
same  triumph  of  my  infallible  judgment  which  had 
lifted  from  me  the  yoke  of  credulity.  An  uncompromis- 
ing atheist,  such  as  I  was  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  was 
bound  to  scorn  all  those  who  sought  to  implant  religion 
in  their  fellow  men,  and  thereby  prolong  the  reign  of 
superstition.  Of  course  that  was  the  explanation. 

Brother  Hotchkins,  happily  unconscious  of  my  dis- 
approval of  his  complexion,  arose  at  intervals  behind 
the  railing,  to  announce,  from  a  slip  of  paper,  that  "the 


MANNA  269 

next  number  on  our  programme  will  be  a  musical  selec- 
tion by,"  etc.,  etc.;  until  lie  arrived  at  "I  am  sure  you 
will  all  join  me  in  thanking  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  have  entertained  us  this  evening."  And  as  I  moved 
towards  the  door  with  my  companions,  I  would  hear  his 
voice  raised  for  the  inevitable  "You  are  all  invited  to 
remain  to  a  short  prayer  service,  after  which  — "a  little 
louder  —  "refreshments  will  be  served  in  the  vestry.  I 
will  ask  Brother  Tompkins  to  — "  The  rest  was  lost  in 
the  shuffle  of  feet  about  the  door  and  the  roar  of  electric 
cars  glancing  past  each  other  on  opposite  tracks.  I 
always  got  out  of  the  chapel  before  Brother  Tompkins 
could  do  me  any  harm.  As  if  there  was  anything  he 
could  steal  from  me,  now  that  there  was  no  God  in  my 
heart! 

If  I  were  to  go  back  to  Morgan  Chapel  now,  I  should 
stay  to  hear  Brother  Tompkins,  and  as  many  other  bre- 
thren as  might  have  anything  to  say.  I  would  sit  very 
still  in  my  corner  seat  and  listen  to  the  prayer,  and 
silently  join  in  the  Amen.  Fori  know  now  what  Wheeler 
Street  is,  and  I  know  what  Morgan  Chapel  is  there 
for,  in  the  midst  of  those  crooked  alleys,  those  saloons, 
those  pawnshops,  those  gloomy  tenements.  It  is  there 
to  apply  soap  and  water,  and  it  is  doing  that  all  the  time. 
I  have  learned,  since  my  deliverance  from  Wheeler 
Street,  that  there  is  more  than  one  road  to  any  given 
goal.  I  should  look  with  respect  at  Brother  Hotchkins 
applying  soap  and  water  in  his  own  way,  convinced  at 
last  that  my  way  is  not  the  only  way.  Men  must  work 
with  those  tools  to  the  use  of  which  they  are  best  fitted 
by  nature.  Brother  Hotchkins  must  pray,  and  I  must 
bear  witness,  and  another  must  nurse  a  feeble  infant. 
We  are  all  honest  workmen,  and  deserve  standing-room 


270  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

in  the  workshop  of  sweating  humanity.  It  is  only  the 
idle  scoffers  who  stand  by  and  jeer  at  our  efforts  to 
cleanse  our  house  that  should  be  kicked  out  of  the 
door,  as  Brother  Hotchkins  turned  out  the  rowdies. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  looseness  of  our  family 
discipline  at  this  time  that  nobody  was  seriously  inter- 
ested in  our  visits  to  Morgan  Chapel.  Our  time  was 
our  own,  after  school  duties  and  household  tasks  were 
done.  Joseph  sold  newspapers  after  school;  I  swept  and 
washed  dishes;  Dora  minded  the  baby.  For  the  rest,  we 
amused  ourselves  as  best  we  could.  Father  and  mother 
were  preoccupied  with  the  store  day  and  night;  and 
not  so  much  with  weighing  and  measuring  and  making 
change  as  with  figuring  out  how  long  it  would  take  the 
outstanding  accounts  to  ruin  the  business  entirely.  If 
my  mother  had  scruples  against  her  children  resorting 
to  a  building  with  a  cross  on  it,  she  did  not  have  time  to 
formulate  them.  If  my  father  heard  us  talking  about 
Morgan  Chapel,  he  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  sar- 
castic characterization,  and  wanted  to  know  if  we  were 
going  to  join  the  Salvation  Army  next;  but  he  did 
not  seriously  care,  and  he  was  willing  that  the  children 
should  have  a  good  time.  And  if  my  parents  had  ob- 
jected to  Morgan  Chapel,  was  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
the  saloon  a  better  place  for  us  children  to  spend  the 
evening  ?  They  could  not  have  argued  with  us  very 
long,  so  they  hardly  argued  at  all. 

In  Polotzk  we  had  been  trained  and  watched,  our 
days  had  been  regulated,  our  conduct  prescribed.  In 
America,  suddenly,  we  were  let  loose  on  the  street.  Why? 
Because  my  father  having  renounced  his  faith,  and  my 
mother  being  uncertain  of  hers,  they  had  no  particular 
creed  to  hold  us  to.    The  conception  of  a  system  of 


MANNA  271 

ethics  independent  of  religion  could  not  at  once  enter 
as  an  active  principle  in  their  life;  so  that  they  could 
give  a  child  no  reason  why  to  be  truthful  or  kind.  And 
as  with  religion,  so  it  fared  with  other  branches  of 
our  domestic  education.  Chaos  took  the  place  of  sys- 
tem; uncertainty,  inconsistency  undermined  discipline. 
My  parents  knew  only  that  they  desired  us  to  be  like 
American  children;  and  seeing  how  their  neighbors  gave 
their  children  boundless  liberty,  they  turned  us  also 
loose,  never  doubting  but  that  the  American  way  was 
the  best  way.  In  public  deportment,  in  etiquette,  in  all 
matters  of  social  intercourse,  they  had  no  standards  to 
go  by,  seeing  that  America  was  not  Polotzk.  In  their 
bewilderment  and  uncertainty  they  needs  must  trust  us 
children  to  learn  from  such  models  as  the  tenements 
afforded.  More  than  this,  they  must  step  down  from 
their  throne  of  parental  authority,  and  take  the  law 
from  their  children's  mouths;  for  they  had  no  other 
means  of  finding  out  what  was  good  American  form. 
The  result  was  that  laxity  of  domestic  organization, 
that  inversion  of  normal  relations  which  makes  for 
friction,  and  which  sometimes  ends  in  breaking  up  a 
family  that  was  formerly  united  and  happy. 

This  sad  process  of  disintegration  of  home  life  may  be 
observed  in  almost  any  immigrant  family  of  our  class 
and  with  our  traditions  and  aspirations.  It  is  part  of  the 
process  of  Americanization;  an  upheaval  preceding  the 
state  of  repose.  It  is  the  cross  that  the  first  and  second 
generations  must  bear,  an  involuntary  sacrifice  for  the 
sake  of  the  future  generations.  These  are  the  pains  of 
adjustment,  as  racking  as  the  pains  of  birth.  And  as  the 
mother  forgets  her  agonies  in  the  bliss  of  clasping  her 
babe  to  her  breast,  so  the  bent  and  heart-sore  immigrant 


272  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

forgets  exile  and  homesickness  and  ridicule  and  loss  and 
estrangement,  when  he  beholds  his  sons  and  daughters 
moving  as  Americans  among  Americans. 

On  Wheeler  Street  there  were  no  real  homes.  There 
were  miserable  flats  of  three  or  four  rooms,  or  fewer,  in 
which  families  that  did  not  practise  race  suicide  cooked, 
washed,  and  ate;  slept  from  two  to  four  in  a  bed,  in 
windowless  bedrooms;  quarrelled  in  the  gray  morning, 
and  made  up  in  the  smoky  evening;  tormented  each 
other,  supported  each  other,  saved  each  other,  drove 
each  other  out  of  the  house.  But  there  was  no  common 
life  in  any  form  that  means  life.  There  was  no  room  for 
it,  for  one  thing.  Beds  and  cribs  took  up  most  of  the 
floor  space,  disorder  packed  the  interspaces.  The  centre 
table  in  the  "parlor"  was  not  loaded  with  books.  It 
held,  invariably,  a  photograph  album  and  an  orna- 
mental lamp  with  a  paper  shade;  and  the  lamp  was  usu- 
ally out  of  order.  So  there  was  as  little  motive  for  a 
common  life  as  there  was  room.  The  yard  was  only  big 
enough  for  the  perennial  rubbish  heap.  The  narrow 
sidewalk  was  crowded.  What  were  the  people  to  do  with 
themselves?  There  were  the  saloons,  the  missions,  the 
libraries,  the  cheap  amusement  places,  and  the  neigh- 
borhood houses.  People  selected  their  resorts  accord- 
ing to  their  tastes.  The  children,  let  it  be  thankfully 
recorded,  flocked  mostly  to  the  clubs;  the  little  girls 
to  sew,  cook,  dance,  and  play  games;  the  little  boys  to 
hammer  and  paste,  mend  chairs,  debate,  and  govern  a 
toy  republic.  All  these,  of  course,  are  forms  of  baptism 
by  soap  and  water. 

Our  neighborhood  went  in  search  of  salvation  to 
Morgan  Memorial  Hall,  Barnard  Memorial,  Morgan 
Chapel  aforementioned,  and  some  other  clean  places 


MANNA  273 

that  lighted  a  candle  in  their  window.  My  brother,  my 
sister  Dora,  and  I  were  introduced  to  some  of  the  clubs 
by  our  young  neighbors,  and  we  were  glad  to  go.  For 
our  home  also  gave  us  little  besides  meals  in  the  kitchen 
and  beds  in  the  dark.  What  with  the  six  of  us,  and  the 
store,  and  the  baby,  and  sometimes  a  "  greener  "  or  two 
from  Polotzk,  whom  we  lodged  as  a  matter  of  course  till 
they  found  a  permanent  home — what  with  such  a  com- 
pany and  the  size  of  our  tenement,  we  needed  to  get  out 
almost  as  much  as  our  neighbors'  children.  I  say  almost; 
for  our  parlor  we  managed  to  keep  pretty  clear,  and 
the  lamp  on  our  centre  table  was  always  in  order,  and 
its  light  fell  often  on  an  open  book.  Still,  it  was  part 
of  the  life  of  Wheeler  Street  to  belong  to  clubs,  so  we 
belonged. 

I  did  n't  care  for  sewing  or  cooking,  so  I  joined  a 
dancing-club;  and  even  here  I  was  a  failure.  I  had  been 
a  very  good  dancer  in  Russia,  but  here  I  found  all  the 
steps  different,  and  I  did  not  have  the  courage  to  go  out 
in  the  middle  of  the  slippery  floor  and  mince  it  and  toe 
it  in  front  of  the  teacher.  When  I  retired  to  a  corner  and 
tried  to  play  dominoes,  I  became  suddenly  shy  of  my 
partner;  and  I  never  could  win  a  game  of  checkers, 
although  formerly  I  used  to  beat  my  father  at  it.  I 
tried  to  be  friends  with  a  little  girl  I  had  known  in 
Chelsea,  but  she  met  my  advances  coldly.  She  lived  on 
Appleton  Street,  which  was  too  aristocratic  to  mix  with 
Wheeler  Street.  Geraldine  was  studying  elocution,  and 
she  wore  a  scarlet  cape  and  hood,  and  she  was  going  on 
the  stage  by  and  by.  I  acknowledged  that  her  sense  of 
superiority  was  well-founded,  and  retired  farther  into 
my  corner,  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  my  shabbiness 
and  lowliness. 


274  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

I  looked  on  at  the  dancing  until  I  could  endure  it  no 
longer.  Overcome  by  a  sense  of  isolation  and  unfitness, 
I  slipped  out  of  the  room,  avoiding  the  teacher's  eye, 
and  went  home  to  write  melancholy  poetry. 

What  had  come  over  me?  Why  was  I,  the  confident, 
the  ambitious,  suddenly  grown  so  shy  and  meek?  Why 
was  the  candidate  for  encyclopaedic  immortality  over- 
awed by  a  scarlet  hood?  Why  did  I,  a  very  tomboy 
yesterday,  suddenly  find  my  playmates  stupid,  and  hide- 
and-seek  a  bore?  I  did  not  know  why.  I  only  knew 
that  I  was  lonely  and  troubled  and  sore;  and  I  went 
home  to  write  sad  poetry. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  pattern  of  the  red  carpet  in 
our  parlor,  —  we  had  achieved  a  carpet  since  Chelsea 
days,  —  because  I  lay  for  hours  face  down  on  the  floor, 
writing  poetry  on  a  screechy  slate.  When  I  had  per- 
fected my  verses,  and  copied  them  fair  on  the  famous 
blue-lined  note  paper,  and  saw  that  I  had  made  a  very 
pathetic  poem  indeed,  I  felt  better.  And  this  happened 
over  and  over  again.  I  gave  up  the  dancing-club,  I  ceased 
to  know  the  rowdy  little  boys,  and  I  wrote  melancholy 
poetry  oftener,  and  felt  better.  The  centre  table  became 
my  study.  I  read  much,  and  mooned  between  chapters, 
and  wrote  long  letters  to  Miss  Dillingham. 

For  some  time  I  wrote  to  her  almost  daily.  That  was 
when  I  found  in  my  heart  such  depths  of  woe  as  I  could 
not  pack  into  rhyme.  And  finally  there  came  a  day 
when  I  could  utter  my  trouble  in  neither  verse  nor  prose, 
and  I  implored  Miss  Dillingham  to  come  to  me  and  hear 
my  sorrowful  revelations.  But  I  did  not  want  her  to 
come  to  the  house.  In  the  house  there  was  no  privacy; 
I  could  not  talk.  Would  she  meet  me  on  Boston  Common 
at  such  and  such  a  time? 


MANNA  275 

Would  she?  She  was  a  devoted  friend,  and  a  wise  wo- 
man. She  met  me  on  Boston  Common.  It  was  a  gray 
autumn  day  —  was  it  not  actually  drizzling  ?  —  and  I 
was  cold  sitting  on  the  bench;  but  I  was  thrilled  through 
and  through  with  the  sense  of  the  magnitude  of  my 
troubles,  and  of  the  romantic  nature  of  the  rendezvous. 

Who  that  was  even  half  awake  when  he  was  growing 
up  does  not  know  what  all  these  symptoms  betokened? 
Miss  Dillingham  understood,  and  she  wisely  gave  me  no 
inkling  of  her  diagnosis.  She  let  me  talk  and  kept  a 
grave  face.  She  did  not  belittle  my  troubles  —  I  made 
specific  charges  against  my  home,  members  of  my 
family,  and  life  in  general;  she  did  not  say  that  I  would 
get  over  them,  that  every  growing  girl  suffers  from  the 
blues;  that  I  was,  in  brief,  a  little  goose  stretching  my 
wings  for  flight.  She  told  me  rather  that  it  would  be 
noble  to  bear  my  sorrows  bravely,  to  soothe  those  who 
irritated  me,  to  live  each  day  with  all  my  might.  She 
reminded  me  of  great  men  and  women  who  have  suf- 
fered, and  who  overcame  their  troubles  by  living  and 
working.  And  she  sent  me  home  amazingly  comforted, 
my  pettiness  and  self-consciousness  routed  by  the  quiet 
influence  of  her  gray  eyes  searching  mine.  This,  or 
something  like  this,  had  to  be  repeated  many  times,  as 
anybody  will  know  who  was  present  at  the  slow  birth 
of  his  manhood.  From  now  on,  for  some  years,  of  course, 
I  must  weep  and  laugh  out  of  season,  stand  on  tiptoe 
to  pluck  the  stars  in  heaven,  love  and  hate  immoder- 
ately, propound  theories  of  the  destiny  of  man,  and 
not  know  what  is  going  on  in  my  own  heart. 


CHAPTER  XV 

TARNISHED    LAURELS 

In  the  intervals  of  harkening  to  my  growing-pains  I 
was,  of  course,  still  a  little  girl.  As  a  little  girl,  in  many 
ways  immature  for  my  age,  I  finished  my  course  in  the 
grammar  school,  and  was  graduated  with  honors,  four 
years  after  my  landing  in  Boston. 

Wheeler  Street  recognizes  five  great  events  in  a  girl's 
life:  namely, christening,  confirmation,  graduation,  mar- 
riage, and  burial.  These  occasions  all  require  full  dress 
for  the  heroine,  and  full  dress  is  forthcoming,  no  matter  if 
the  family  goes  into  debt  for  it.  There  was  not  a  girl  who 
came  to  school  in  rags  all  the  year  round  that  did  not 
burst  forth  in  sudden  glory  on  Graduation  Day.  Fine 
muslin  frocks,  lace-trimmed  petticoats,  patent-leather 
shoes,  perishable  hats,  gloves,  parasols,  fans  —  every 
girl  had  them.  A  mother  who  had  scrubbed  floors  for 
years  to  keep  her  girl  in  school  was  not  going  to  have 
her  shamed  in  the  end  for  want  of  a  pretty  dress.  So 
she  cut  off  the  children's  supply  of  butter  and  worked 
nights  and  borrowed  and  fell  into  arrears  with  the  rent; 
and  on  Graduation  Day  she  felt  magnificently  rewarded, 
seeing  her  Mamie  as  fine  as  any  girl  in  the  school.  And 
in  order  to  preserve  for  posterity  this  triumphant 
spectacle,  she  took  Mamie,  after  the  exercises,  to  be 
photographed,  with  her  diploma  in  one  hand,  a  bouquet 
in  the  other,  and  the  gloves,  fan,  parasol,  and  patent- 
leather  shoes  in  full  sight  around  a  fancy  table.  Truly, 
the  follies  of  the  poor  are  worth  studying. 


TARNISHED   LAURELS  277 

It  did  not  strike  me  as  folly,  but  as  the  fulfilment  of 
the  portent  of  my  natal  star,  when  I  saw  myself,  on 
Graduation  Day,  arrayed  like  unto  a  princess.  Frills, 
lace,  patent-leather  shoes  —  I  had  everything.  I  even 
had  a  sash  with  silk  fringes. 

Did  I  speak  of  folly?  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you  quite 
another  tale.  Perhaps  when  you  have  heard  it  you  will 
not  be  too  hasty  to  run  and  teach  The  Poor.  Perhaps 
you  will  admit  that  The  Poor  may  have  something  to 
teach  you. 

Before  we  had  been  two  years  in  America,  my  sister 
Frieda  was  engaged  to  be  married.  This  was  under  the 
old  dispensation:  Frieda  came  to  America  too  late  to 
avail  herself  of  the  gifts  of  an  American  girlhood.  Had 
she  been  two  years  younger  she  might  have  dodged  her 
circumstances,  evaded  her  Old-World  fate.  She  would 
have  gone  to  school  and  imbibed  American  ideas.  She 
might  have  clung  to  her  girlhood  longer  instead  of 
marrying  at  seventeen.  I  am  so  fond  of  the  American 
way  that  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  pitiful  accident 
that  my  sister  should  have  come  so  near  and  missed 
by  so  little  the  fulfilment  of  my  country's  promise  to 
women.  A  long  girlhood,  a  free  choice  in  marriage, 
and  a  brimful  womanhood  are  the  precious  rights  of  an 
American  woman. 

My  father  was  too  recently  from  the  Old  World  to  be 
entirely  free  from  the  influence  of  its  social  traditions. 
He  had  put  Frieda  to  work  out  of  necessity.  The 
necessity  was  hardly  lifted  when  she  had  an  offer  of 
marriage,  but  my  father  would  not  stand  in  the  way  of 
what  he  considered  her  welfare.  Let  her  escape  from 
the  workshop,  if  she  had  a  chance,  while  the  roses  were 
still  in  her  cheeks.   If  she  remained  for  ten  years  more 


278  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

bent  over  the  needle,  what  would  she  gain?  Not  even 
her  personal  comfort;  for  Frieda  never  called  her  earn- 
ings her  own,  but  spent  everything  on  the  family,  deny- 
ing herself  all  but  necessities.  The  young  man  who  sued 
for  her  was  a  good  workman,  earning  fair  wages,  of 
irreproachable  character,  and  refined  manners.  My 
father  had  known  him  for  years. 

So  Frieda  was  to  be  released  from  the  workshop.  The 
act  was  really  in  the  nature  of  a  sacrifice  on  my  father's 
part,  for  he  was  still  in  the  woods  financially,  and  would 
sorely  miss  Frieda's  wages.  The  greater  the  pity,  there- 
fore, that  there  was  no  one  to  counsel  him  to  give 
America  more  time  with  my  sister.  She  attended  the 
night  school ;  she  was  fond  of  reading.  In  books,  in  a 
slowly  ripening  experience,  she  might  have  found  a  bet- 
ter answer  to  the  riddle  of  a  girl's  life  than  a  premature 
marriage. 

|  My  sister's  engagement  pleased  me  very  well.  Our 
confidences  were  not  interrupted,  and  I  understood  that 
she  was  happy.  I  was  very  fond  of  Moses  Rifkin  my- 
self. He  was  the  nicest  young  man  of  my  acquaintance, 
not  at  all  like  other  workmen.  He  was  very  kind  to  us 
children,  bringing  us  presents  and  taking  us  out  for 
excursions.  He  had  a  sense  of  humor,  and  he  was  going 
to  marry  our  Frieda.   How  could  I  help  being  pleased? 

The  marriage  was  not  to  take  place  for  some  time,  and 
in  the  interval  Frieda  remained  in  the  shop.  She  con- 
tinued to  bring  home  all  her  wages.  If  she  was  going  to 
desert  the  family,  she  would  not  let  them  feel  it  sooner 
than  she  must. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  she  turned  spendthrift.  She  ap- 
propriated I  do  not  know  what  fabulous  sums,  to  spend 
just  as  she  pleased,  for  once.  She  attended  bargain  sales, 


TARNISHED   LAURELS  279 

and  brought  away  such  finery  as  had  never  graced  our 
flat  before.  Home  from  work  in  the  evening,  after  a 
hurried  supper,  she  shut  herself  up  in  the  parlor,  and 
cut  and  snipped  and  measured  and  basted  and  stitched 
as  if  there  were  nothing  else  in  the  world  to  do.  It  was 
early  summer,  and  the  air  had  a  wooing  touch,  even  on 
Wheeler  Street.  Moses  Bifkin  came,  and  I  suppose  he 
also  had  a  wooing  touch.  But  Frieda  only  smiled  and 
shook  her  head;  and  as  her  mouth  was  full  of  pins, 
it  was  physically  impossible  for  Moses  to  argue.  She 
remained  all  evening  in  a  white  disorder  of  tucked 
breadths,  curled  ruffles,  dismembered  sleeves,  and  swirls 
of  fresh  lace;  her  needle  glancing  in  the  lamplight,  and 
poor  Moses  picking  up  her  spools. 

Her  trousseau,  was  it  not?  No,  not  her  trousseau.  It 
was  my  graduation  dress  on  which  she  was  so  intent. 
And  when  it  was  finished,  and  was  pronounced  a  most 
beautiful  dress,  and  she  ought  to  have  been  satisfied, 
Frieda  went  to  the  shops  once  more  and  bought  the 
sash  with  the  silk  fringes. 

The  improvidence  of  the  poor  is  a  most  distress- 
ing spectacle  to  all  right-minded  students  of  sociology. 
But  please  spare  me  your  homily  this  time.  It  does 
not  apply.  The  poor  are  the  poor  in  spirit.  Those  who 
a^e  rich  in  spiritual  endowment  will  never  be  found 
bankrupt. 

Graduation  Day  was  nothing  less  than  a  triumph  for 
me.  It  was  not  only  that  I  had  two  pieces  to  speak,  one 
of  them  an  original  composition ;  it  was  more  because  I 
was  known  in  my  school  district  as  the  "smartest"  girl 
in  the  class,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  on  the  prodigy,  and 
I  was  aware  of  it.  I  was  aware  of  everything.  That  is 
why  I  am  able  to  tell  you  everything  now. 


280  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

The  assembly  hall  was  crowded  to  bursting,  but  my 
friends  had  no  trouble  in  finding  seats.  They  were  ush- 
ered up  to  the  platform,  which  was  reserved  for  guests  of 
honor.  I  was  very  proud  to  see  my  friends  treated  with 
such  distinction.  My  parents  were  there,  and  Frieda,  of 
course;  Miss  Dillingham,  and  some  others  of  my  Chelsea 
teachers.  A  dozen  or  so  of  my  humbler  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances were  scattered  among  the  crowd  on  the  floor. 

When  I  stepped  up  on  the  stage  to  read  my  composi- 
tion I  was  seized  with  stage  fright.  The  floor  under  my 
feet  and  the  air  around  me  were  oppressively  present  to 
my  senses,  while  my  own  hand  I  could  not  have  located. 
I  did  not  know  where  my  body  began  or  ended,  I  was  so 
conscious  of  my  gloves,  my  shoes,  my  flowing  sash.  My 
wonderful  dress,  in  which  I  had  taken  so  much  satis- 
faction, gave  me  the  most  trouble.  I  was  suddenly 
paralyzed  by  a  conviction  that  it  was  too  short,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  I  stood  on  absurdly  long  legs.  And  ten 
thousand  people  were  looking  up  at  me.  It  was  horrible! 

I  suppose  I  no  more  than  cleared  my  throat  before  I 
began  to  read,  but  to  me  it  seemed  that  I  stood  petri- 
fied for  an  age,  an  awful  silence  booming  in  my  ears. 
My  voice,  when  at  last  I  began,  sounded  far  away.  I 
thought  that  nobody  could  hear  me.  But  I  kept  on, 
mechanically;  for  I  had  rehearsed  many  times.  And  as  I 
read  I  gradually  forgot  myself,  forgot  the  place  and  the 
occasion.  The  people  looking  up  at  me  heard  the  story 
of  a  beautiful  little  boy,  my  cousin,  whom  I  had  loved 
very  dearly,  and  who  died  in  far-distant  Russia  some 
years  after  I  came  to  America.  My  composition  was  not 
a  masterpiece;  it  was  merely  good  for  a  girl  of  fifteen. 
But  I  had  written  that  I  still  loved  the  little  cousin,  and 
I  made  a  thousand  strangers  feel  it.    And  before  the 


TARNISHED  LAURELS  281 

applause  there  was  a  moment  of  stillness  in  the  great 
hall. 

After  the  singing  and  reading  by  the  class,  there  were 
the  customary  addresses  by  distinguished  guests.  We 
girls  were  reminded  that  we  were  going  to  be  women,  and 
happiness  was  promised  to  those  of  us  who  would  aim  to 
be  noble  women.  A  great  many  trite  and  obvious  things, 
a  great  deal  of  the  rhetoric  appropriate  to  the  occasion, 
compliments,  applause,  general  satisfaction;  so  went  the 
programme.  Much  of  the  rhetoric,  many  of  the  fine 
sentiments  did  not  penetrate  to  the  thoughts  of  us  for 
whom  they  were  intended,  because  we  were  in  such  a 
flutter  about  our  ruffles  and  ribbons,  and  could  hardly 
refrain  from  openly  prinking.  But  we  applauded  very 
heartily  every  speaker  and  every  would-be  speaker,un- 
derstanding  that  by  a  consensus  of  opinion  on  the  plat- 
form we  were  very  fine  young  ladies,  and  much  was  to 
be  expected  of  us. 

One  of  the  last  speakers  was  introduced  as  a  member 
of  the  School  Board.  He  began  like  all  the  rest  of  them, 
but  he  ended  differently.  Abandoning  generalities,  he 
went  on  to  tell  the  story  of  a  particular  schoolgirl,  a 
pupil  in  a  Boston  school,  whose  phenomenal  career 
might  serve  as  an  illustration  of  what  the  American 
system  of  free  education  and  the  European  immigrant 
could  make  of  each  other.  He  had  not  got  very  far  when 
I  realized,  to  my  great  surprise  and  no  small  delight, 
that  he  was  telling  my  story.  I  saw  my  friends  on  the 
platform  beaming  behind  the  speaker,  and  I  heard  my 
name  whispered  in  the  audience.  I  had  been  so  much  of 
a  celebrity,  in  a  small  local  way,  that  identification  of 
the  speaker's  heroine  was  inevitable.  My  classmates, 
of  course,  guessed  the  name,  and  they  turned  to  look  at 


282  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

me,  and  nudged  me,  and  all  but  pointed  at  me;  their  new 
muslins  rustling  and  silk  ribbons  hissing. 

One  or  two  nearest  me  forgot  etiquette  so  far  as  to 
whisper  to  me.  "Mary  Antin,"  they  said,  as  the  speaker 
sat  down,  amid  a  burst  of  the  most  enthusiastic  applause, 
— "Mary  Antin,  why  don't  you  get  up  and  thank  him?  " 

I  was  dazed  with  all  that  had  happened.  Bursting  with 
pride  I  was,  but  I  was  moved,  too,  by  nobler  feelings. 
I  realized,  in  a  vague,  far-off  way,  what  it  meant  to  my 
father  and  mother  to  be  sitting  there  and  seeing  me  held 
up  as  a  paragon,  my  history  made  the  theme  of  an  elo- 
quent discourse;  what  it  meant  to  my  father  to  see  his 
ambitious  hopes  thus  gloriously  fulfilled,  his  judgment 
of  me  verified;  what  it  meant  to  Frieda  to  hear  me  all 
but  named  with  such  honor.  With  all  these  things 
choking  my  heart  to  overflowing,  my  wits  forsook  me, 
if  I  had  had  any  at  all  that  day.  The  audience  was 
stirring  and  whispering  so  that  I  could  hear:  "Who  is 
it ?  "  "  Is  that  so?  "  And  again  they  prompted  me :  — 
t    "Mary  Antin,  get  up.  Get  up  and  thank  him,  Mary." 

And  I  rose  where  I  sat,  and  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
thin  as  a  fly's  after  the  oratorical  bass  of  the  last 
speaker,  I  began :  — 

"I  want  to  thank  you  — " 

That  is  as  far  as  I  got.  Mr.  Swan,  the  principal, 
waved  his  hand  to  silence  me;  and  then,  and  only  then, 
did  I  realize  the  enormity  of  what  I  had  done. 

My  eulogist  had  had  the  good  taste  not  to  mention 
names,  and  I  had  been  brazenly  forward,  deliberately 
calling  attention  to  myself  when  there  was  no  need.  Oh, 
it  was  sickening!  I  hated  myself,  I  hated  with  all  my 
heart  the  girls  who  had  prompted  me  to  such  immodest 
conduct.  I  wished  the  ground  would  yawn  and  snap  me 


LTARNISHED  LAURELS  283 

up.  I  was  ashamed  to  look  up  at  my  friends  on  the  plat- 
form. What  was  Miss  Dillingham  thinking  of  me?  Oh, 
what  a  fool  I  had  been!  I  had  ruined  my  own  triumph. 
I  had  disgraced  myself,  and  my  friends,  and  poor  Mr. 
Swan,  and  the  Winthrop  School.  The  monster  vanity 
had  sucked  out  my  wits,  and  left  me  a  staring  idiot. 

It  is  easy  to  say  that  I  was  making  a  mountain  out  of 
a  mole  hill,  a  catastrophe  out  of  a  mere  breach  of  good 
manners.  It  is  easy  to  say  that.  But  I  know  that  I  suf- 
fered agonies  of  shame.  After  the  exercises,  when  the 
crowd  pressed  in  all  directions  in  search  of  friends,  I 
tried  in  vain  to  get  out  of  the  hall.  I  was  mobbed,  I 
was  lionized.  Everybody  wanted  to  shake  hands  with 
the  prodigy  of  the  day,  and  they  knew  who  it  was.  I 
had  made  sure  of  that;  I  had  exhibited  myself.  The 
people  smiled  on  me,  flattered  me,  passed  me  on  from 
one  to  another.  I  smirked  back,  but  I  did  not  know 
what  I  said.  I  was  wild  to  be  clear  of  the  building.  I 
thought  everybody  mocked  me.  All  my  roses  had  turned 
to  ashes,  and  all  through  my  own  brazen  conduct. 

I  would  have  given  my  diploma  to  have  Miss  Dilling- 
ham know  how  the  thing  had  happened,  but  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  speak  first.  If  she  would  ask  me  —  But 
nobody  asked.  Nobody  looked  away  from  me.  Every- 
body congratulated  me,  and  my  father  and  mother  and 
my  remotest  relations.  But  the  sting  of  shame  smarted 
just  the  same;  I  could  not  be  consoled.  I  had  made  a 
fool  of  myself:  Mr.  Swan  had  publicly  put  me  down. 

Ah,  so  that  was  it!  Vanity  was  the  vital  spot  again. 
It  was  wounded  vanity  that  writhed  and  squirmed.  It 
was  not  because  I  had  been  bold,  but  because  I  had  been 
pronounced  bold,  that  I  suffered  so  monstrously.  If  Mr. 
Swan,  with  an  eloquent  gesture,  had  not  silenced  me, 


284  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

I  might  have  made  my  little  speech  —  good  heavens ! 
what  did  I  mean  to  say?  —  and  probably  called  it  an- 
other feather  in  my  bonnet.  But  he  had  stopped  me 
promptly,  disgusted  with  my  forwardness,  and  he  had 
shown  before  all  those  hundreds  what  he  thought  of  me. 
Therein  lay  the  sting. 

With  all  my  talent  for  self -analysis,  it  took  me  a  long 
time  to  realize  the  essential  pettiness  of  my  trouble. 
For  years  —  actually  for  years  —  after  that  eventful 
day  of  mingled  triumph  and  disgrace,  I  could  not  think 
of  the  unhappy  incident  without  inward  squirming.  I 
remember  distinctly  how  the  little  scene  would  suddenly 
flash  upon  me  at  night,  as  I  lay  awake  in  bed,  and  I 
would  turn  over  impatiently,  as  if  to  shake  off  a  night- 
mare; and  this  so  long  after  the  occurrence  that  I  was 
myself  amazed  at  the  persistence  of  the  nightmare.  I 
had  never  been  reproached  by  any  one  for  my  conduct 
on  Graduation  Day.  Why  could  I  not  forgive  myself? 
I  studied  the  matter  deeply  —  it  wearies  me  to  remem- 
ber how  deeply  —  till  at  last  I  understood  that  it  was 
wounded  vanity  that  hurt  so,  and  no  nobler  remorse. 
Then,  and  only  then,  was  the  ghost  laid.  If  it  ever  tried 
to  get  up  again,  after  that,  I  only  had  to  call  it  names  to 
see  it  scurry  back  to  its  grave  and  pull  the  sod  down 
after  it. 

Before  I  had  laid  my  ghost,  a  friend  told  me  of  a  simi- 
lar experience  of  his  boyhood.  He  was  present  at  a  small 
private  entertainment,  and  a  violinist  who  should  have 
played  being  absent,  the  host  asked  for  a  volunteer  to 
take  his  place.  My  friend,  then  a  boy  in  his  teens, 
offered  himself,  and  actually  stood  up  with  the  violin  in 
his  hands,  as  if  to  play.  But  he  could  not  even  hold  the 
instrument  properly  —  he  had  never  been  taught  the 


TARNISHED   LAURELS  285 

violin.  He  told  me  he  never  knew  what  possessed  him 
to  get  up  and  make  a  fool  of  himself  before  a  roomful 
of  people;  but  he  was  certain  that  ten  thousand  imps 
possessed  him  and  tormented  him  for  years  and  years 
after,  if  only  he  remembered  the  incident. 

My  friend's  confession  was  such  a  consolation  to  me 
that  I  could  not  help  thinking  I  might  do  some  other 
poor  wretch  a  world  of  good  by  offering  him  my  com- 
pany and  that  of  my  friend  in  his  misery.  For  if  it  took 
me  a  long  time  to  find  out  that  I  was  a  vain  fool,  the 
corollary  did  not  escape  me:  there  must  be  other  vain 
fools. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DOVER   STREET 

What  happened  next  was  Dover  Street. 

And  what  was  Dover  Street? 

Ask  rather,  What  was  it  not?  Dover  Street  was  my 
fairest  garden  of  girlhood,  a  gate  of  paradise,  a  window 
facing  on  a  broad  avenue  of  life.  Dover  Street  was  a 
prison,  a  school  of  discipline,  a  battlefield  of  sordid 
strife.  The  air  in  Dover  Street  was  heavy  with  evil 
odors  of  degradation,  but  a  breath  from  the  uppermost 
heavens  rippled  through,  whispering  of  infinite  things. 
In  Dover  Street  the  dragon  poverty  gripped  me  for  a 
last  fight,  but  I  overthrew  the  hideous  creature,  and  sat 
on  his  neck  as  on  a  throne.  In  Dover  Street  I  was 
shackled  with  a  hundred  chains  of  disadvantage,  but 
with  one  free  hand  I  planted  little  seeds,  right  there  in 
the  mud  of  shame,  that  blossomed  into  the  honeyed 
rose  of  widest  freedom.  In  Dover  Street  there  was 
often  no  loaf  on  the  table,  but  the  hand  of  some  noble 
friend  was  ever  in  mine.  The  night  in  Dover  Street  was 
rent  with  the  cries  of  wrong,  but  the  thunders  of  truth 
crashed  through  the  pitiful  clamor  and  died  out  in 
prophetic  silences. 

Outwardly,  Dover  Street  is  a  noisy  thoroughfare  cut 
through  a  South  End  slum,  in  every  essential  the  same 
as  Wheeler  Street.  Turn  down  any  street  in  the  slums, 
at  random,  and  call  it  by  whatever  name  you  please,  you 
will  observe  there  the  same  fashions  of  life,  death,  and 
endurance.  Every  one  of  those  streets  is  a  rubbish  heap 


DOVER  STREET  287 

of  damaged  humanity,  and  it  will  take  a  powerful 
broom  and  an  ocean  of  soapsuds  to  clean  it  out. 

Dover  Street  is  intersected,  near  its  eastern  end, 
where  we  lived,  by  Harrison  Avenue.  That  street  is  to 
the  South  End  what  Salem  Street  is  to  the  North  End. 
It  is  the  heart  of  the  South  End  ghetto,  for  the  greater 
part  of  its  length ;  although  its  northern  end  belongs 
to  the  realm  of  Chinatown.  Its  multifarious  business 
bursts  through  the  narrow  shop  doors,  and  overruns 
the  basements,  the  sidewalk,  the  street  itself,  in  push- 
carts and  open-air  stands.  Its  multitudinous  popula- 
tion bursts  through  the  greasy  tenement  doors,  and 
floods  the  corridors,  the  doorsteps,  the  gutters,  the  side 
streets,  pushing  in  and  out  among  the  pushcarts,  all 
day  long  and  half  the  night  besides. 

Rarely  as  Harrison  Avenue  is  caught  asleep,  even 
more  rarely  is  it  found  clean.  Nothing  less  than  a  fire 
or  flood  would  cleanse  this  street.  Even  Passover  can- 
not quite  accomplish  this  feat.  For  although  the  tene- 
ments may  be  scrubbed  to  their  remotest  corners,  on 
this  one  occasion,  the  cleansing  stops  at  the  curbstone. 
A  great  deal  of  the  filthy  rubbish  accumulated  in  a  year 
is  pitched  into  the  street,  often  through  the  windows; 
and  what  the  ashman  on  his  daily  round  does  not  re- 
move is  left  to  be  trampled  to  powder,  in  which  form  it 
steals  back  into  the  houses  from  which  it  was  so  lately 
removed. 

The  City  Fathers  provide  soap  and  water  for  the 
slums,  in  the  form  of  excellent  schools,  kindergartens, 
and  branch  libraries.  And  there  they  stop:  at  the  curb- 
stone of  the  people's  life.  They  cleanse  and  discipline 
the  children's  minds,  but  their  bodies  they  pitch  into 
the  gutter.  For  there  are  no  parks  and  almost  no  play- 


288  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

grounds  in  the  Harrison  Avenue  district,  —  in  my  day 
there  were  none,  —  and  such  as  there  are  have  been 
wrenched  from  the  city  by  public-spirited  citizens  who 
have  no  offices  in  City  Hall.  No  wonder  the  ashman  is 
not  more  thorough:  he  learns  from  his  masters. 

It  is  a  pity  to  have  it  so,  in  a  queen  of  enlightened 
cities  like  Boston.  If  we  of  the  twentieth  century  do  not 
believe  in  baseball  as  much  as  in  philosophy,  we  have 
not  learned  the  lesson  of  modern  science,  which  teaches, 
among  other  things,  that  the  body  is  the  nursery  of  the 
soul;  the  instrument  of  our  moral  development;  the 
secret  chart  of  our  devious  progress  from  worm  to  man. 
The  great  achievement  of  recent  science,  of  which  we  are 
so  proud,  has  been  the  deciphering  of  the  hieroglyphic 
of  organic  nature.  To  worship  the  facts  and  neglect  the 
implications  of  the  message  of  science  is  to  applaud  the 
drama  without  taking  the  moral  to  heart.  And  we  cer- 
tainly are  not  taking  the  moral  to  heart  when  we  try  to 
make  a  hero  out  of  the  boy  by  such  foreign  appliances  as 
grammar  and  algebra,  while  utterly  despising  the  fittest 
instrument  for  his  uplifting  —  the  boy's  own  body. 

We  had  no  particular  reason  for  coming  to  Dover 
Street.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  Applepie  Alley. 
For  my  father  had  sold,  with  the  goods,  fixtures,  and 
good-will  of  the  Wheeler  Street  store,  all  his  hopes  of 
ever  making  a  living  in  the  grocery  trade;  and  I  doubt  if 
he  got  a  silver  dollar  the  more  for  them.  We  had  to  live 
somewhere,  even  if  we  were  not  making  a  living,  so  we 
came  to  Dover  Street,  where  tenements  were  cheap;  by 
which  I  mean  that  rent  was  low.  The  ultimate  cost  of 
life  in  those  tenements,  in  terms  of  human  happiness,  is 
high  enough. 

Our  new  home  consisted  of  five  small  rooms  up  two 


HARRISON  AVENUE  IS  THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOUTH  END  GHETTO 


DOVER  STREET  289 

flights  of  stairs,  with  the  right  of  way  through  the  dark 
corridors.  In  the  "parlor"  the  dingy  paper  hung  in  rags 
and  the  plaster  fell  in  chunks.  One  of  the  bedrooms  was 
absolutely  dark  and  air-tight.  The  kitchen  windows 
looked  out  on  a  dirty  court,  at  the  back  of  which  was 
the  rear  tenement  of  the  estate.  To  us  belonged,  along 
with  the  five  rooms  and  the  right  of  way  aforesaid,  a 
block  of  upper  space  the  length  of  a  pulley  line  across 
this  court,  and  the  width  of  an  arc  described  by  a  windy 
Monday's  wash  in  its  remotest  wanderings. 

The  little  front  bedroom  was  assigned  to  me,  with 
only  one  partner,  my  sister  Dora.  A  mouse  could  not 
have  led  a  cat  much  of  a  chase  across  this  room;  still 
we  found  space  for  a  narrow  bed,  a  crazy  bureau,  and 
a  small  table.  From  the  window  there  was  an  unob- 
structed view  of  a  lumberyard,  beyond  which  frowned 
the  blackened  walls  of  a  factory.  The  fence  of  the 
lumberyard  was  gay  with  theatre  posters  and  illustrated 
advertisements  of  tobacco,  whiskey,  and  patent  baby 
foods.  When  the  window  was  open,  there  was  a  con- 
stant clang  and  whirr  of  electric  cars,  varied  by  the 
screech  of  machinery,  the  clatter  of  empty  wagons,  or 
the  rumble  of  heavy  trucks. 

There  was  nothing  worse  in  all  this  than  we  had 
had  before  since  our  exile  from  Crescent  Beach;  but  I 
did  not  take  the  same  delight  in  the  propinquity  of 
electric  cars  and  arc  lights  that  I  had  till  now.  I  sup- 
pose the  tenement  began  to  pall  on  me. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  enjoyed  any  degree  of 
privacy,  because  I  had  half  a  room  to  myself.  We  were 
six  in  the  five  rooms;  we  were  bound  to  be  always  in 
each  other's  way.  And  as  it  was  within  our  flat,  so  it 
was  in  the  house  as  a  whole.  All  doors,  beginning  with 


290  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

the  street  door,  stood  open  most  of  the  time;  or  if  they 
were  closed,  the  tenants  did  not  wear  out  their  knuckles 
knocking  for  admittance.  I  could  stand  at  any  time  in 
the  unswept  entrance  hall  and  tell,  from  an  analysis  of 
the  medley  of  sounds  and  smells  that  issued  from  doors 
ajar,  what  was  going  on  in  the  several  flats  from  below 
up.  That  guttural,  scolding  voice,  unremittent  as  the 
hissing  of  a  steam  pipe,  is  Mrs.  Rasnosky.  I  make  a 
guess  that  she  is  chastising  the  infant  Isaac  for  taking 
a  second  lump  of  sugar  in  his  tea.  Spam!  Bam!  Yes, 
and  she  is  rubbing  in  her  objections  with  the  flat  of  her 
hand.  That  blubbering  and  moaning,  accompanying  an 
elephantine  tread,  is  fat  Mrs.  Casey,  second  floor,  home 
drunk  from  an  afternoon  out,  in  fear  of  the  vengeance 
of  Mr.  Casey;  to  propitiate  whom  she  is  burning  a  pan 
of  bacon,  as  the  choking  fumes  and  outrageous  sizzling 
testify.  I  hear  a  feeble  whining,  interrupted  by  long 
silences.  It  is  that  scabby  baby  on  the  third  floor,  fallen 
out  of  bed  again,  with  nobody  home  to  pick  him  up. 

To  escape  from  these  various  horrors  I  ascend  to  the 
roof,  where  bacon  and  babies  and  child-beating  are  not. 
But  there  I  find  two  figures  in  calico  wrappers,  with  bare 
red  arms  akimbo,  a  basket  of  wet  clothes  in  front  of 
each,  and  only  one  empty  clothes-line  between  them.  I 
do  not  want  to  be  dragged  in  as  a  witness  in  a  case  of 
assault  and  battery,  so  I  descend  to  the  street  again, 
grateful  to  note,  as  I  pass,  that  the  third-floor  baby  is  still. 

In  front  of  the  door  I  squeeze  through  a  group  of 
children.  They  are  going  to  play  tag,  and  are  counting 
to  see  who  should  be  "it":  — 

"My-mother-and-your-mother-went-out-to-hang-clothes; 
My-mother-gave-your-mother-a-punch-in-the-nose." 

If  the  children's  couplet  does  not  give  a  vivid  picture  of 


DOVER  STREET  291 

the  life,  manners,  and  customs  of  Dover  Street,  no 
description  of  mine  can  ever  do  so. 

Frieda  was  married  before  we  came  to  Dover  Street, 
and  went  to  live  in  East  Boston.  This  left  me  the  eldest 
of  the  children  at  home.  Whether  on  this  account,  or 
because  I  was  outgrowing  my  childish  carelessness,  or 
because  I  began  to  believe,  on  the  cumulative  evidence 
of  the  Crescent  Beach,  Chelsea,  and  Wheeler  Street 
adventures,  that  America,  after  all,  was  not  going  to 
provide  for  my  father's  family,  —  whether  for  any  or  all 
of  these  reasons,  I  began  at  this  time  to  take  bread-and- 
butter  matters  more  to  heart,  and  to  ponder  ways  and 
means  of  getting  rich.  My  father  sought  employment 
wherever  work  was  going  on.  His  health  was  poor;  he 
aged  very  fast.  Nevertheless  he  offered  himself  for 
every  kind  of  labor;  he  offered  himself  for  a  boy's  wages. 
Here  he  was  found  too  weak,  here  too  old;  here  his  im- 
perfect English  was  in  the  way,  here  his  Jewish  appear- 
ance. He  had  a  few  short  terms  of  work  at  this  or  that; 
I  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  form  of  drudgery  that  my 
father  did  not  practise.  But  all  told,  he  did  not  earn 
enough  to  pay  the  rent  in  full  and  buy  a  bone  for  the 
soup.  The  only  steady  source  of  income,  for  I  do  not 
know  what  years,  was  my  brother's  earnings  from  his 
newspapers. 

Surely  this  was  the  time  for  me  to  take  my  sister's 
place  in  the  workshop.  I  had  had  every  fair  chance  until 
now :  school,  my  time  to  myself,  liberty  to  run  and  play 
and  make  friends.  I  had  graduated  from  grammar 
school;  I  was  of  legal  age  to  go  to  work.  What  was  I 
doing,  sitting  at  home  and  dreaming? 

I  was  minding  my  business,  of  course;  with  all  my 
might  I  was  minding  my  business.  As  I  understood  it, 


292  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

my  business  was  to  go  to  school,  to  learn  everything 
there  was  to  know,  to  write  poetry,  become  famous, 
and  make  the  family  rich.  Surely  it  was  not  shirking  to 
lay  out  such  a  programme  for  myself.  I  had  boundless 
faith  in  my  future.  I  was  certainly  going  to  be  a  great 
poet;  I  was  certainly  going  to  take  care  of  the  family. 

Thus  mused  I,  in  my  arrogance.  And  my  family? 
They  were  as  bad  as  I.  My  father  had  not  lost  a  whit 
of  his  ambition  for  me.  Since  Graduation  Day,  and  the 
school-committeeman's  speech,  and  half  a  column  about 
me  in  the  paper,  his  ambition  had  soared  even  higher. 
He  was  going  to  keep  me  at  school  till  I  was  prepared  for 
college.  By  that  time,  he  was  sure,  I  would  more  than 
take  care  of  myself.  It  never  for  a  moment  entered 
his  head  to  doubt  the  wisdom  or  justice  of  this  course. 
And  my  mother  was  just  as  loyal  to  my  cause,  and  my 
brother,  and  my  sister. 

It  is  no  wonder  if  I  got  along  rapidly:  I  was  helped, 
encouraged,  and  upheld  by  every  one.  Even  the  baby 
cheered  me  on.  When  I  asked  her  whether  she  believed 
in  higher  education,  she  answered,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "Ducka-ducka-da!"  Against  her  I  remem- 
ber only  that  one  day,  when  I  read  her  a  verse  out  of  a 
most  pathetic  piece  I  was  composing,  she  laughed  right 
out,  a  most  disrespectful  laugh;  for  which  I  revenged 
myself  by  washing  her  face  at  the  faucet,  and  rubbing 
it  red  on  the  roller  towel. 

It  was  just  like  me,  when  it  was  debated  whether  I 
would  be  best  fitted  for  college  at  the  High  or  the  Latin 
School,  to  go  in  person  to  Mr.Tetlow,  who  was  principal 
of  both  schools,  and  so  get  the  most  expert  opinion  on 
the  subject.  I  never  send  a  messenger,  you  may  re- 
member, where  I  can  go  myself.  It  was  vacation  time, 


DOVER  STREET  293 

and  I  had  to  find  Mr.  Tetlow  at  his  home.  Away  out 
to  the  wilds  of  Roxbury  I  found  my  way  —  perhaps  half 
an  hour's  ride  on  the  electric  car  from  Dover  Street. 
I  grew  an  inch  taller  and  broader  between  the  corner 
of  Cedar  Street  and  Mr.  Tetlow's  house,  such  was  the 
charm  of  the  clean,  green  suburb  on  a  cramped  waif 
from  the  slums.  My  faded  calico  dress,  my  rusty  straw 
sailor  hat,  the  color  of  my  skin  and  all  bespoke  the  waif. 
But  never  a  bit  daunted  was  I.  I  went  up  the  steps  to 
the  porch,  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for  the  great  man 
with  as  much  assurance  as  if  I  were  a  daily  visitor  on 
Cedar  Street.  I  calmly  awaited  the  appearance  of  Mr. 
Tetlow  in  the  reception  room,  and  stated  my  errand 
without  trepidation. 

And  why  not?  I  was  a  solemn  little  person  for  the 
moment,  earnestly  seeking  advice  on  a  matter  of  great 
importance.  That  is  what  Mr.  Tetlow  saw,  to  judge 
by  the  gravity  with  which  he  discussed  my  business 
with  me,  and  the  courtesy  with  which  he  showed  me 
to  the  door.  He  saw,  too,  I  fancy,  that  I  was  not  the 
least  bit  conscious  of  my  shabby  dress;  and  I  am  sure 
he  did  not  smile  at  my  appearance,  even  when  my  back 
was  turned. 

A  new  life  began  for  me  when  I  entered  the  Latin 
School  in  September.  Until  then  I  had  gone  to  school 
with  my  equals,  and  as  a  matter  of  course.  Now  it  was 
distinctly  a  feat  for  me  to  keep  in  school,  and  my  school- 
mates were  socially  so  far  superior  to  me  that  my 
poverty  became  conspicuous.  The  pupils  of  the  Latin 
School,  from  the  nature  of  the  institution,  are  an  aristo- 
cratic set.  They  come  from  refined  homes,  dress  well, 
and  spend  the  recess  hour  talking  about  parties,  beaux, 
and  the  matinee.    As  students  they  are  either  very 


294  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

quick  or  very  hard-working;  for  the  course  of  study,  in 
the  lingo  of  the  school  world,  is  considered  "stiff."  The 
girl  with  half  her  brain  asleep,  or  with  too  many  beaux, 
drops  out  by  the  end  of  the  first  year;  or  a  one  and  only 
beau  may  be  the  fatal  element.  At  the  end  of  the  course 
the  weeding  process  has  reduced  the  once  numerous 
tribe  of  academic  candidates  to  a  cosey  little  family. 

By  all  these  tokens  I  should  have  had  serious  business 
on  my  hands  as  a  pupil  in  the  Latin  School,  but  I  did 
not  find  it  hard.  To  make  myself  letter-perfect  in  my 
lessons  required  long  hours  of  study,  but  that  was  my 
delight.  To  make  myself  at  home  in  an  alien  world  was 
also  within  my  talents;  I  had  been  practising  it  day  and 
night  for  the  past  four  years.  To  remain  unconscious  of 
my  shabby  and  ill-fitting  clothes  when  the  rustle  of  silk 
petticoats  in  the  schoolroom  protested  against  them  was 
a  matter  still  within  my  moral  reach.  Half  a  dress  a 
year  had  been  my  allowance  for  many  seasons;  even 
less,  for  as  I  did  not  grow  much  I  could  wear  my  dresses 
as  long  as  they  lasted.  And  I  had  stood  before  editors, 
and  exchanged  polite  calls  with  school-teachers,  un- 
troubled by  the  detestable  colors  and  archaic  design  of 
my  garments.  To  stand  up  and  recite  Latin  declensions 
without  trembling  from  hunger  was  something  more  of  a 
feat,  because  I  sometimes  went  to  school  with  little  or 
no  breakfast;  but  even  that  required  no  special  heroism, 
• —  at  most  it  was  a  matter  of  self-control.  I  had  the 
advantage  of  a  poor  appetite,  too;  I  really  did  not  need 
much  breakfast.  Or  if  I  was  hungry  it  would  hardly 
show;  I  coughed  so  much  that  my  unsteadiness  was  self- 
explained. 

Everything  helped,  you  see.  My  schoolmates  helped. 
Aristocrats  though  they  were,  they  did  not  hold  them- 


DOVER  STREET 

selves  aloof  from  me.  Some  of  the  girls  who  came  to 
school  in  carriages  were  especially  cordial.  They  rated 
me  by  my  scholarship,  and  not  by  my  father's  occu- 
pation. They  teased  and  admired  me  by  turns  for 
learning  the  footnotes  in  the  Latin  grammar  by  heart; 
they  never  reproached  me  for  my  ignorance  of  the 
latest  comic  opera.  And  it  was  more  than  good  breed- 
ing that  made  them  seem  unaware  of  the  incongruity 
of  my  presence.  It  was  a  generous  appreciation  of 
what  it  meant  for  a  girl  from  the  slums  to  be  in  the 
Latin  School,  on  the  way  to  college.  If  our  intimacy 
ended  on  the  steps  of  the  school-house,  it  was  more  my 
fault  than  theirs.  Most  of  the  girls  were  democratic 
enough  to  have  invited  me  to  their  homes,  although  to 
some,  of  course,  I  was  "impossible."  But  I  had  no  time 
for  visiting;  school  work  and  reading  and  family  affairs 
occupied  all  the  daytime,  and  much  of  the  night  time. 
I  did  not  "go  with"  any  of  the  girls,  in  the  school-girl 
sense  of  the  phrase.  I  admired  some  of  them,  either  for 
good  looks,  or  beautiful  manners,  or  more  subtle  attri- 
butes; but  always  at  a  distance.  I  discovered  something 
inimitable  in  the  way  the  Back  Bay  girls  carried  them- 
selves; and  I  should  have  been  the  first  to  perceive  the 
incongruity  of  Commonwealth  Avenue  entwining  arms 
with  Dover  Street.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  I  should 
be  famous  and  rich;  but  not  just  then.  So  my  com- 
panions and  I  parted  on  the  steps  of  the  school-house,  in 
mutual  respect;  they  guiltless  of  snobbishness,  I  inno- 
cent of  envy.  It  was  a  graciously  American  relation, 
and  I  am  happy  to  this  day  to  recall  it. 

The  one  exception  to  this  rule  of  friendly  distance  was 
my  chum,  Florence  Connolly.  But  I  should  hardly  have 
said  "chum."   Florence  and  I  occupied  adjacent  seats 


296  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

for  three  years,  but  we  did  not  walk  arm  in  arm,  nor 
call  each  other  nicknames,  nor  share  our  lunch,  nor  cor- 
respond in  vacation  time.  Florence  was  quiet  as  a 
mouse,  and  I  was  reserved  as  an  oyster;  and  perhaps  we 
two  had  no  more  in  common  fundamentally  than  those 
two  creatures  in  their  natural  state.  Still,  as  we  were 
both  very  studious,  and  never  strayed  far  from  our 
desks  at  recess,  we  practised  a  sort  of  intimacy  of  pro- 
pinquity. Although  Florence  was  of  my  social  order, 
her  father  presiding  over  a  cheap  lunch  room,  I  did  not 
on  that  account  feel  especially  drawn  to  her.  I  spent 
more  time  studying  Florence  than  loving  her,  I  suppose. 
And  yet  I  ought  to  have  loved  her;  she  was  such  a  good 
girl.  Always  perfect  in  her  lessons,  she  was  so  modest 
that  she  recited  in  a  noticeable  tremor,  and  had  to  be 
told  frequently  to  raise  her  voice.  Florence  wore  her 
light  brown  hair  brushed  flatly  back  and  braided  in  a 
single  plait,  at  a  time  when  pompadours  were  six  inches 
high  and  braids  hung  in  pairs.  Florence  had  a  pocket  in 
her  dress  for  her  handkerchief,  in  a  day  when  pockets 
were  repugnant  to  fashion.  All  these  things  ought  to 
have  made  me  feel  the  kinship  of  humble  circumstances, 
the  comradeship  of  intellectual  earnestness;  but  they 
did  not. 

The  truth  is  that  my  relation  to  persons  and  things 
depended  neither  on  social  distinctions  nor  on  intel- 
lectual or  moral  affinities.  My  attitude,  at  this  time, 
was  determined  by  my  consciousness  of  the  unique  ele- 
ments in  my  character  and  history.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  been  pursuing  a  single  adventure  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world.  Through  highways  and  byways, 
underground,  overground,  by  land,  by  sea,  ever  the 
same  star  had  guided  me,  I  thought,  ever  the  same  pur- 


DOVER  STREET  297 

pose  had  divided  my  affairs  from  other  men's.  What 
that  purpose  was,  where  was  the  fixed  horizon  beyond 
which  my  star  would  not  recede,  was  an  absorbing 
mystery  to  me.  But  the  current  moment  never  puzzled 
me.  What  I  chose  instinctively  to  do  I  knew  to  be  right 
and  in  accordance  with  my  destiny.  I  never  hesitated 
over  great  things,  but  answered  promptly  to  the  call  of 
my  genius.  So  what  was  it  to  me  whether  my  neighbors 
spurned  or  embraced  me,  if  my  way  was  no  man's  way? 
Nor  should  any  one  ever  reject  me  whom  I  chose  to 
be  my  friend,  because  I  would  make  sure  of  a  kindred 
spirit  by  the  coincidence  of  our  guiding  stars. 

When,  where  in  the  harum-scarum  life  of  Dover 
Street  was  there  time  or  place  for  such  self -commun- 
ing? In  the  night,  when  everybody  slept;  on  a  solitary 
walk,  as  far  from  home  as  I  dared  to  go. 

I  was  not  unhappy  on  Dover  Street;  quite  the  con- 
trary. Everything  of  consequence  was  well  with  me. 
Poverty  was  a  superficial,  temporary  matter;  it  van- 
ished at  the  touch  of  money.  Money  in  America  was 
plentiful;  it  was  only  a  matter  of  getting  some  of  it,  and 
I  was  on  my  way  to  the  mint.  If  Dover  Street  was  not  a 
pleasant  place  to  abide  in,  it  was  only  a  wayside  house. 
And  I  was  really  happy,  actively  happy,  in  the  exercise 
of  my  mind  in  Latin,  mathematics,  history,  and  the 
rest;  the  things  that  suffice  a  studious  girl  in  the  middle 
teens. 

Still  I  had  moments  of  depression,  when  my  whole 
being  protested  against  the  life  of  the  slum.  I  resented 
the  familiarity  of  my  vulgar  neighbors.  I  felt  myself 
defiled  by  the  indecencies  I  was  compelled  to  witness. 
Then  it  was  I  took  to  running  away  from  home.  I  went 
out  in  the  twilight  and  walked  for  hours,  my  blind  feet 


298  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

leading  me.  I  did  not  care  where  I  went.  If  I  lost  my 
way,  so  much  the  better;  I  never  wanted  to  see  Dover 
Street  again. 

But  behold,  as  I  left  the  crowds  behind,  and  the 
broader  avenues  were  spanned  by  the  open  sky,  my 
grievances  melted  away,  and  I  fell  to  dreaming  of 
things  that  neither  hurt  nor  pleased.  A  fringe  of  trees 
against  the  sunset  became  suddenly  the  symbol  of  the 
whole  world,  and  I  stood  and  gazed  and  asked  ques- 
tions of  it.  The  sunset  faded;  the  trees  withdrew.  The 
wind  went  by,  but  dropped  no  hint  in  my  ear.  The 
evening  star  leaped  out  between  the  clouds,  and  sealed 
the  secret  with  a  seal  of  splendor. 

A  favorite  resort  of  mine,  after  dark,  was  the  South 
Boston  Bridge,  across  South  Bay  and  the  Old  Colony 
Railroad.  This  was  so  near  home  that  I  could  go  there 
at  any  time  when  the  confusion  in  the  house  drove  me 
out,  or  I  felt  the  need  of  fresh  air.  I  liked  to  stand  lean- 
ing on  the  bridge  railing,  and  look  down  on  the  dim 
tangle  of  railroad  tracks  below.  I  could  barely  see  them 
branching  out,  elbowing,  winding,  and  sliding  out  into 
the  night  in  pairs.  I  was  fascinated  by  the  dotted  lights, 
the  significant  red  and  green  of  signal  lamps.  These 
simple  things  stood  for  a  complexity  that  it  made 
me  dizzy  to  think  of.  Then  the  blackness  below  me 
was  split  by  the  fiery  eye  of  a  monster  engine,  his 
breath  enveloped  me  in  blinding  clouds,  his  long  body 
shot  by,  rattling  a  hundred  claws  of  steel;  and  he  was 
gone,  with  an  imperative  shriek  that  shook  me  where  I 
stood. 

So  would  I  be,  swift  on  my  rightful  business,  picking 
out  my  proper  track  from  the  million  that  cross  it, 
pausing  for  no  obstacles,  sure  of  my  goal. 


■ 

■■■:      1  - 

1 

I;iV\  -^ 

• 

■       !          1 

DOVER  STREET  299 

After  my  watches  on  the  bridge  I  often  stayed  up  to 
write  or  study.  It  is  late  before  Dover  Street  begins  to 
go  to  bed.  It  is  past  midnight  before  I  feel  that  I  am 
alone.  Seated  in  my  stiff  little  chair  before  my  narrow 
table,  I  gather  in  the  night  sounds  through  the  open 
window,  curious  to  assort  and  define  them.  As,  little  by 
little,  the  city  settles  down  to  sleep,  the  volume  of  sound 
diminishes,  and  the  qualities  of  particular  sounds  stand 
out.  The  electric  car  lurches  by  with  silent  gong,  taking 
the  empty  track  by  leaps,  humming  to  itself  in  the  in- 
visible distance.  A  benighted  team  swings  recklessly 
around  the  corner,  sharp  under  my  rattling  window 
panes,  the  staccato  pelting  of  hoofs  on  the  cobblestones 
changed  suddenly  to  an  even  pounding  on  the  bridge.  A 
few  pedestrians  hurry  by,  their  heavy  boots  all  out  of 
step.  The  distant  thoroughfares  have  long  ago  ceased 
their  murmur,  and  I  know  that  a  million  lamps  shine 
idly  in  the  idle  streets. 

My  sister  sleeps  quietly  in  the  little  bed.  The  rhyth- 
mic dripping  of  a  faucet  is  audible  through  the  flat.  It 
is  so  still  that  I  can  hear  the  paper  crackling  on  the  wall. 
Silence  upon  silence  is  added  to  the  night;  only  the 
kitchen  clock  is  the  voice  of  my  brooding  thoughts,  — 
ticking,  ticking,  ticking. 

Suddenly  the  distant  whistle  of  a  locomotive  breaks 
the  stillness  with  a  long-drawn  wail.  Like  a  threatened 
trouble,  the  sound  comes  nearer,  piercingly  near;  then 
it  dies  out  in  a  mangled  silence,  complaining  to  the  last. 

The  sleepers  stir  in  their  beds.  Somebody  sighs,  and 
the  burden  of  all  his  trouble  falls  upon  my  heart.  A 
homeless  cat  cries  in  the  alley,  in  the  voice  of  a  human 
child.  And  the  ticking  of  the  kitchen  clock  is  the  voice 
of  my  troubled  thoughts. 


300  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Many  things  are  revealed  to  me  as  I  sit  and  watch  the 
world  asleep.  But  the  silence  asks  me  many  questions 
that  I  cannot  answer;  and  I  am  glad  when  the  tide  of 
sound  begins  to  return,  by  little  and  little,  and  I  wel- 
come the  clatter  of  tin  cans  that  announces  the  milk- 
man. I  cannot  see  him  in  the  dusk,  but  I  know  his 
wholesome  face  has  no  problem  in  it. 

It  is  one  flight  up  to  the  roof;  it  is  a  leap  of  the 
soul  to  the  sunrise.  The  morning  mist  rests  lightly 
on  chimneys  and  roofs  and  walls,  wreathes  the  lamp- 
posts, and  floats  in  gauzy  streamers  down  the  streets. 
Distant  buildings  are  massed  like  palace  walls,  with 
turrets  and  spires  lost  in  the  rosy  clouds.  I  love  my 
beautiful  city  spreading  all  about  me.  I  love  the  world. 
I  love  my  place  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   LANDLADY 

From  sunrise  to  sunset  the  day  was  long  enough  for 
many  things  besides  school,  which  occupied  five  hours. 
There  was  time  for  me  to  try  to  earn  my  living;  or  at 
least  the  rent  of  our  tenement.  Rent  was  a  standing 
trouble.  We  were  always  behind,  and  the  landlady  was 
very  angry;  so  I  was  particularly  ambitious  to  earn  the 
rent.  I  had  had  one  or  two  poems  published  since  the 
celebrated  eulogy  of  George  Washington,  but  nobody 
had  paid  for  my  poems  —  yet.  I  was  coming  to  that,  of 
course,  but  in  the  mean  time  I  could  not  pay  the  rent 
with  my  writing.  To  be  sure,  my  acquaintance  with 
men  of  letters  gave  me  an  opening.  A  friend  of  mine 
introduced  me  to  a  slightly  literary  lady,  who  intro- 
duced me  to  the  editor  of  the  "Boston  Searchlight," 
who  offered  me  a  generous  commission  for  subscriptions 
to  his  paper. 

If  our  rent  was  three  and  one-half  dollars  per  week, 
payable  on  strong  demand,  and  the  annual  subscription 
to  the  "Searchlight"  was  one  dollar,  and  my  commission 
was  fifty  per  cent,  how  many  subscribers  did  I  need? 
How  easy!  Seven  subscribers  a  week  —  one  a  day! 
Anybody  could  do  that.  Mr.  James,  the  editor,  said  so. 
He  said  I  could  get  two  or  three  any  afternoon,  between 
the  end  of  school  and  supper.  If  I  worked  all  Saturday 
—  my  head  went  dizzy  computing  the  amount  of  my 
commissions.  It  would  be  rent  and  shoes  and  bonnets 
and  everything  for  everybody. 


302  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

Bright  and  early  one  Saturday  morning  in  the  fall  I 
started  out  canvassing,  in  my  hand  a  neatly  folded  copy 
of  the  "Searchlight,"  in  my  heart,  faith  in  my  lucky 
star  and  good- will  towards  all  the  world.  I  began  with 
one  of  the  great  office  buildings  on  Tremont  Street,  as 
Mr.  James  had  advised.  The  first  half -hour  I  lost,  wan- 
dering through  the  corridors,  reading  the  names  on  the 
doors.  There  were  so  many  people  in  the  same  office, 
how  should  I  know,  when  I  entered,  which  was  Wilson 
&  Reed,  Solicitors,  and  which  C.  Jenkins  Smith,  Mort- 
gages and  Bonds?  I  decided  that  it  did  not  matter:  I 
would  call  them  all  "Sir." 

I  selected  a  door  and  knocked.  After  waiting  some 
time,  I  knocked  a  little  louder.  The  building  buzzed 
with  noise,  —  swift  footsteps  echoed  on  the  stone  floors, 
snappy  talk  broke  out  with  the  opening  of  every  door, 
bells  tinkled,  elevators  hummed,  —  no  wonder  they  did 
not  hear  me  knock.  But  I  noticed  that  other  people 
went  in  without  knocking,  so  after  a  while  I  did  the  same. 

There  were  several  men  and  two  women  in  the 
small,  brightly  lighted  room.  They  were  all  busy.  It 
was  very  confusing.  Should  I  say  "Sir"  to  the  roomful? 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  I  began.  That  was  a  very  good 
beginning,  I  felt  sure,  but  I  must  speak  louder.  Lately 
my  voice  had  been  poor  in  school  —  gave  out,  some- 
times, in  the  middle  of  a  recitation.  I  cleared  my  throat, 
but  I  did  not  repeat  myself.  The  back  of  the  bald  head 
that  I  had  addressed  revolved  and  presented  its  com- 
plement, a  bald  front. 

"Will  you  —  would  you  like  —  I'd  like  — " 

I  stared  in  dismay  at  the  bald  gentleman,  unable  to 
recall  a  word  of  what  I  meant  to  say;  and  he  stared  in 
impatience  at  me. 


THE  LANDLADY  303 

"Well,  well!"  he  snapped,  "What  is  it?  What  is 
it?" 

That  reminded  me. 

"It 's  the  ' Boston  Searchlight,'  sir.  I  take  sub  — " 

"Take  it  away  —  take  it  away.  We're  busy  here." 
He  waved  me  away  over  his  shoulder,  the  back  of  his 
head  once  more  presented  to  me. 

I  stole  out  of  the  room  in  great  confusion.  Was  that 
the  way  I  was  going  to  be  received?  Why,  Mr.  James 
had  said  nobody  would  hesitate  to  subscribe.  It  was  the 
best  paper  in  Boston,  the  "Searchlight,"  and  no  business 
man  could  afford  to  be  without  it.  I  must  have  made 
some  blunder.  Was  "Mortgages  and  Bonds"  a  busi- 
ness? I  'd  never  heard  of  it,  and  very  likely  I  had  spoken 
to  C.  Jenkins  Smith.  I  must  try  again  —  of  course  I 
must  try  again. 

I  selected  a  real  estate  office  next.  A  real  estate 
broker,  I  knew  for  certain,  was  a  business  man.  Mr. 
George  A.  Hooker  must  be  just  waiting  for  the 
"Boston  Searchlight." 

Mr.  Hooker  was  indeed  waiting,  and  he  was  telling 
"Central"  about  it. 

"Yes,  Central;  waiting,  waiting  —  What?  —  Yes,  yes; 
ring  four  —  What 's  that?  —  Since  when?  —  Why  did  n't 
you  say  so  at  first,  then,  instead  of  keeping  me  on  the 
line  —  What?  —  Oh,  is  that  so?  Well,  never  mind  this 
time,  Central.  —  I  see,  I  see.  —  All  right." 

I  had  become  so  absorbed  in  this  monologue  that 
when  Mr.  Hooker  swung  around  on  me  in  his  revolv- 
ing chair  I  was  startled,  feeling  that  I  had  been  caught 
eavesdropping.  I  thought  he  was  going  to  rebuke  me, 
but  he  only  said,  "What  can  I  do  for  you,  Miss?" 

Encouraged  by  his  forbearance,  I  said:  — 


304  THE  PROMISED   LAND, 

"Would  you  like  to  subscribe  to  the  'Boston  Search- 
light,' sir?"— "Sir"  was  safer,  after  all.  — "It's  a 
dollar  a  year." 

I  was  supposed  to  say  that  it  was  the  best  paper  in 
Boston,  etc.,  but  Mr.  Hooker  did  not  look  interested, 
though  he  was  not  cross. 

"No,  thank  you,  Miss;  no  new  papers  for  me.  Excuse 
me,  I  am  very' busy."  And  he  began  to  dictate  to  a 
stenographer. 

Well,  that  was  not  so  bad.  Mr.  Hooker  was  at  least 
polite.  I  must  try  to  make  a  better  speech  next  time.  I 
stuck  to  real  estate  now.  O'Lair  &  Kennedy  were  both 
in,  in  my  next  office,  and  both  apparently  enjoying  a 
minute  of  relaxation,  tilted  back  in  their  chairs  behind 
a  low  railing.  Said  I,  determined  to  be  businesslike  at 
last,  and  addressing  myself  to  the  whole  firm :  — 

"Would  you  like  to  subscribe  to  the  'Boston  Search- 
light?' It's  a  very  good  paper.  No  business  man  can 
afford  it  —  afford  to  be  without  it,  I  mean.  It's  only  a 
dollar  a  year." 

Both  men  smiled  at  my  break,  and  I  smiled,  too.  I 
wondered  would  they  subscribe  separately,  or  would 
they  take  one  copy  for  the  firm. 

"The  'Boston  Searchlight,'"  repeated  one  of  the 
partners.  "Never  heard  of  it.  Is  that  the  paper  you 
have  there?" 

He  unfolded  the  paper  I  gave  him,  looked  over  it, 
and  handed  it  to  his  partner. 

"Ever  heard  of  the  'Searchlight,'  O'Lair?  What  do 
you  think  —  can  we  afford  to  be  without  it?" 

"I  guess  we  '11  make  out  somehow,"  replied  Mr. 
O'Lair,  handing  me  back  my  paper.  "But  I'll  buy  this 
copy  of  you,  Miss,"  he  added,  from  second  thoughts. 


THE  LANDLADY  305 

"And  I'll  go  partner  on  the  bargain,"  said  Mr. 
Kennedy. 

But  I  objected. 

"This  is  a  sample,"  I  said;  "I  don't  sell  single  papers. 
I  take  subscriptions  for  the  year.   It's  one  dollar." 

"And  no  business  man  can  afford  it,  you  know."  Mr. 
Kennedy  winked  as  he  said  it,  and  we  all  smiled  again. 
It  would  have  been  stupid  not  to  see  the  joke. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  sell  my  sample,"  I  said,  with  my 
hand  on  the  doorknob. 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  with 
a  gracious  wave  of  the  hand.  And  his  partner  called 
after  me,  "Better  luck  next  door!" 

Well,  I  was  getting  on !  The  people  grew  friendlier  all 
the  time.  But  I  skipped  "next  door";  it  was  "Mort- 
gages and  Bonds."  I  tried  "Insurance." 

"The  best  paper  in  Boston,  is  it?"  remarked  Mr. 
Thomas  F.  Dix,  turning  over  my  sample.  "And  who 
told  you  that,  young  lady?" 

"Mr.  James,"  was  my  prompt  reply. 

"Who  is  Mr.  James  ?— The  editor!  Oh,  I  see.  And 
do  you  also  think  the  'Searchlight'  the  best  paper  in 
Boston?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  I  like  the  'Herald'  much  better, 
and  the  'Transcript.'  " 

At  that  Mr.  Dix  laughed.  "That's  right,"  he  said. 
"Business  is  business,  but  you  tell  the  truth.  One 
dollar,  is  it?  Here  you  are.  My  name  is  on  the  door. 
Good-day." 

I  think  I  spent  twenty  minutes  copying  the  name  and 
room  number  from  the  door.  I  did  not  trust  myself  to 
read  plain  English.  What  if  I  made  a  mistake,  and  the 
"Searchlight"  went  astray,  and  good  Mr.  Dix  remained 


306  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

unilluminated?  He  had  paid  for  the  year  —  it  would  be 
dreadful  to  make  a  mistake. 

Emboldened  by  my  one  success,  I  went  into  the  next 
office  without  considering  the  kind  of  business  an- 
nounced on  the  door.  I  tried  brokers,  lawyers,  contract- 
ors, and  all,  just  as  they  came  around  the  corridor;  but 
I  copied  no  more  addresses.  Most  of  the  people  were 
polite.  Some  men  waved  me  away,  like  C.  Jenkins 
Smith.  Some  looked  impatient  at  first,  but  excused 
themselves  politely  in  the  end.  Almost  everybody  said, 
"We're  busy  here,"  as  if  they  suspected  I  wanted  them 
to  read  a  whole  year's  issue  of  the  "Searchlight"  at 
once.  At  last  one  man  told  me  he  did  not  think  it  was  a 
nice  business  for  a  girl,  going  through  the  offices  like  that. 

This  took  me  aback.  I  had  not  thought  anything 
about  the  nature  of  the  business.  I  only  wanted  the 
money  to  pay  the  rent.  I  wandered  through  miles  of 
stone  corridors,  unable  to  see  why  it  was  not  a  nice 
business,  and  yet  reluctant  to  go  on  with  it,  with  the 
doubt  in  my  mind.  Intent  on  my  new  problem,  I  walked 
into  a  messenger  boy;  and  looking  back  to  apologize  to 
him,  I  collided  softly  with  a  cushion-shaped  gentleman 
getting  out  of  an  elevator.  I  was  making  up  my  mind 
to  leave  the  building  forever,  when  I  saw  an  office  door 
standing  open.  It  was  the  first  open  door  I  had  come 
across  since  morning  —  it  was  past  noon  now  —  and 
it  was  a  sign  to  me  to  keep  on.  I  must  not  give  up  so 
easily. 

•  Mr.  Frederick  A.  Strong  was  alone  in  the  office,  sur- 
reptitiously picking  his  teeth.  He  had  been  to  lunch.  He 
heard  me  out  good-naturedly. 

"How  much  is  your  commission,  if  I  may  ask?"  It 
was  the  first  thing  he  had  said. 


THE  LANDLADY  307 

"Fifty  cents,  sir." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I  don't  care  to 
subscribe,  but  here's  a  quarter  for  you." 

If  I  did  not  blush,  it  was  because  it  is  not  my  habit, 
but  all  of  a  sudden  I  choked.  A  lump  jumped  into  my 
throat;  almost  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes.  That  man  was 
right  who  said  it  was  not  nice  to  go  through  the  offices. 
I  was  taken  for  a  beggar :  a  stranger  offered  me  money 
for  nothing. 

I  could  not  say  a  word.  I  started  to  go  out.  But  Mr. 
Strong  jumped  up  and  prevented  me. 

"Oh,  don't  go  like  that ! "  he  cried.  " I  did  n't  mean  to 
offend  you;  upon  my  word,  I  did  n't.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  did  n't  know  —  you  see  —  Won't  you  sit  down  a 
minute  to  rest?  That's  kind  of  you." 

Mr.  Strong  was  so  genuinely  repentant  that  I  could 
not  refuse  him.  Besides,  I  felt  a  little  weak.  I  had  been 
on  my  feet  since  morning,  and  had  had  no  lunch.  I  sat 
down,  and  Mr.  Strong  talked.  He  showed  me  a  picture 
of  his  wife  and  little  girl,  and  said  I  must  go  and  see 
them  some  time.  Pretty  soon  I  was  chatting,  too,  and  I 
told  Mr.  Strong  about  the  Latin  School;  and  of  course 
he  asked  me  if  I  was  French,  the  way  people  always  did 
when  they  wanted  to  say  that  I  had  a  foreign  accent.  So 
we  got  started  on  Russia,  and  had  such  an  interesting 
time  that  we  both  jumped  up,  surprised,  when  a  fine 
young  lady  in  a  beautiful  hat  came  in  to  take  possession 
of  the  idle  typewriter. 

Mr.  Strong  introduced  me  very  formally,  thanked  me 
for  an  interesting  hour,  and  shook  hands  with  me  at  the 
door.  I  did  not  add  his  name  to  my  short  subscription 
list,  but  I  counted  it  a  greater  triumph  that  I  had  made 
a  friend. 


308  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

It  would  have  been  seeking  an  anticlimax  to  solicit 
any  more  in  the  building.  I  went  out,  into  the  roar  of 
Tremont  Street,  and  across  the  Common,  still  green  and 
leafy.  I  rested  a  while  on  a  bench,  debating  where  to 
go  next.  It  was  past  two  by  the  clock  on  Park  Street 
Church.  I  had  had  a  long  day  already,  but  it  was  too 
early  to  quit  work,  with  only  one  half  dollar  of  my  own 
in  my  pocket.  It  was  Saturday  —  in  the  evening  the 
landlady  would  come.   I  must  try  a  little  longer. 

I  went  out  along  Columbus  Avenue,  a  popular  route 
for  bicyclists  at  that  time.  The  bicycle  stores  all  along 
the  way  looked  promising  to  me.  The  people  did  not 
look  so  busy  as  in  the  office  building:  they  would  at  least 
be  polite. 

They  were  not  particularly  rude,  but  they  did  not 
subscribe.  Nobody  wanted  the  "Searchlight."  They 
had  never  heard  of  it  —  they  made  jokes  about  it  — 
they  did  not  want  it  at  any  price. 

I  began  to  lose  faith  in  the  paper  myself.  I  got  tired 
of  its  name.  I  began  to  feel  dizzy.  I  stopped  going 
into  the  stores.  I  walked  straight  along,  looking  at 
nothing.  I  wanted  to  go  back,  go  home,  but  I  would  n't. 
I  felt  like  doing  myself  spite.  I  walked  right  along, 
straight  as  the  avenue  ran.  I  did  not  know  where  it 
would  lead  me.  I  did  not  care.  Everything  was  horrid. 
I  would  go  right  on  until  night.  I  would  get  lost.  I 
would  fall  in  a  faint  on  a  strange  doorstep,  and  be 
found  dead  in  the  morning,  and  be  pitied. 

Would  n't  that  be  interesting !  The  adventure  might 
even  end  happily.  I  might  faint  at  the  door  of  a  rich 
old  man's  house,  who  would  take  me  in,  and  order  his 
housekeeper  to  nurse  me,  just  like  in  the  story  books. 
In  my  delirium  —  of  course  I  would  have  a  fever  —  I 


THE  LANDLADY  309 

would  talk  about  the  landlady,  and  how  I  had  tried  to 
earn  the  rent;  and  the  old  gentleman  would  wipe  his 
spectacles  for  pity.  Then  I  would  wake  up,  and  ask 
plaintively,  "Where  am  I?"  And  when  I  got  strong, 
after  a  delightfully  long  convalescence,  the  old  gentle- 
man would  take  me  to  Dover  Street  —  in  a  carriage !  — 
and  we  would  all  be  reunited,  and  laugh  and  cry  to- 
gether. The  old  gentleman,  of  course,  would  engage  my 
father  as  his  steward,  on  the  spot,  and  we  would  all  go  to 
live  in  one  of  his  houses,  with  a  garden  around  it. 

I  walked  on  and  on,  gleefully  aware  that  I  had  not 
eaten  since  morning.  Was  n't  I  beginning  to  feel  shaky? 
Yes;  I  should  certainly  faint  before  long.  But  I  did  n't 
like  the  houses  I  passed.  They  did  not  look  fit  for 
my  adventure.  I  must  keep  up  till  I  reached  a  better 
neighborhood. 

Anybody  who  knows  Boston  knows  how  cheaply  my 
adventure  ended.  Columbus  Avenue  leads  out  to  Rox- 
bury  Crossing.  When  I  saw  that  the  houses  were  get- 
ting shabbier,  instead  of  finer,  my  heart  sank.  When  I 
came  out  on  the  noisy,  thrice-commonplace  street-car 
centre,  my  spirit  collapsed  utterly. 

I  did  not  swoon.  I  woke  up  from  my  foolish,  childish 
dream  with  a  shock.  I  was  disgusted  with  myself,  and 
frightened  besides.  It  was  evening  now,  and  I  was  faint 
and  sick  in  good  earnest,  and  I  did  not  know  where  I 
was.  I  asked  a  starter  at  the  transfer  station  the  way 
to  Dover  Street,  and  he  told  me  to  get  on  a  car  that 
was  just  coming  in. 

"I'll  walk,"  I  said,  "if  you  will  please  tell  me  the 
shortest  way."  How  could  I  spend  five  cents  out  of 
the  little  I  had  made? 

But  the  starter  discouraged  me. 


310  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

"You  can't  walk  it  before  midnight  —  the  way  you 
look,  my  girl.  Better  hop  on  that  car  before  it  goes." 

I  could  not  resist  the  temptation.  I  rode  home  in  the 
car,  and  felt  like  a  thief  when  I  paid  the  fare.  Five  cents 
gone  to  pay  for  my  folly! 

I  was  grateful  for  a  cold  supper;  thrice  grateful  to  hear 
that  Mrs.  Hutch,  the  landlady,  had  been  and  gone,  con- 
tent with  two  dollars  that  my  father  had  brought  home. 

Mrs.  Hutch  seldom  succeeded  in  collecting  the  full 
amount  of  the  rents  from  her  tenants.  I  suppose  that 
made  the  bookkeeping  complicated,  which  must  have 
been  wearing  on  her  nerves;  and  hence  her  temper.  We 
lived,  on  Dover  Street,  in  fear  of  her  temper.  Saturday 
had  a  distinct  quality  about  it,  derived  from  the  immi- 
nence of  Mrs.  Hutch's  visit.  Of  course  I  awoke  on  Satur- 
day morning  with  the  no-school  feeling;  but  the  grim 
thing  that  leaped  to  its  feet  and  glowered  down  on  me, 
while  the  rest  of  my  consciousness  was  still  yawning  on 
its  back,  was  the  Mrs.-Hutch-is-coming-and-there's-no- 
rent  feeling. 

It  is  hard,  if  you  are  a  young  girl,  full  of  life  and  in- 
clined to  be  glad,  to  go  to  sleep  in  anxiety  and  awake  in 
fear.  It  is  apt  to  interfere  with  the  circulation  of  the 
vital  ether  of  happiness  in  the  young,  which  is  damaging 
to  the  complexion  of  the  soul.  It  is  bitter,  when  you 
are  middle-aged  and  unsuccessful,  to  go  to  sleep  in  self- 
reproach  and  awake  unexonerated.  It  is  likely  to  cause 
fermentation  in  the  sweetest  nature;  it  is  certain  to 
breed  gray  hairs  and  a  premature  longing  for  death.  It 
is  pitiful,  if  you  are  the  home-keeping  mother  of  an 
impoverished  family,  to  drop  in  your  traces  helpless  at 
night,  and  awake  unstrengthened  in  the  early  morning. 
The  haunting  consciousness  of  rooted  poverty  is  an 


THE  LANDLADY  311 

improper  bedfellow  for  a  woman  who  still  bears.  It  has 
been  known  to  induce  physical  and  spiritual  malforma- 
tions in  the  babies  she  nurses. 

It  did  require  strength  to  lift  the  burden  of  life,  in  the 
gray  morning,  on  Dover  Street;  especially  on  Saturday 
morning.  Perhaps  my  mother's  pack  was  the  heaviest  to 
lift.  To  the  man  of  the  house,  poverty  is  a  bulky  dragon 
with  gripping  talons  and  a  poisonous  breath;  but  he 
bellows  in  the  open,  and  it  is  possible  to  give  him 
knightly  battle,  with  the  full  swing  of  the  angry  arm 
that  cuts  to  the  enemy's  vitals.  To  the  housewife,  want 
is  an  insidious  myriapod  creature  that  crawls  in  the 
dark,  mates  with  its  own  offspring,  breeds  all  the  year 
round,  persists  like  leprosy.  The  woman  has  an  endless, 
inglorious  struggle  with  the  pest;  her  triumphs  are  too 
petty  for  applause,  her  failures  too  mean  for  notice. 
Care,  to  the  man,  is  a  hound  to  be  kept  in  leash  and 
mastered.  To  the  woman,  care  is  a  secret  parasite  that 
infects  the  blood. 

Mrs.  Hutch,  of  course,  was  only  one  symptom  of  the 
disease  of  poverty,  but  there  were  times  when  she 
seemed  to  me  the  sharpest  tooth  of  the  gnawing  canker. 
Surely  as  sorrow  trails  behind  sin,  Saturday  evening 
brought  Mrs.  Hutch.  The  landlady  did  not  trail.  Her 
movements  were  anything  but  impassive.  She  climbed 
the  stairs  with  determination  and  landed  at  the  top  with 
emphasis.  Her  knock  on  the  door  was  clear,  sharp, 
unfaltering;  it  was  impossible  to  pretend  not  to  hear  it. 
Her  "Good-evening"  announced  business;  her  manner 
of  taking  a  chair  suggested  the  thro  wing-down  of  the 
gauntlet.  Invariably  she  asked  for  my  father,  calling 
him  Mr.  Anton,  and  refusing  to  be  corrected;  almost 
invariably  he  was  not  at  home  —  was  out  looking  for 


312  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

work.  Had  he  left  her  the  rent?  My  mother's  gentle 
"No,  ma'am"  was  the  signal  for  the  storm.  I  do  not 
want  to  repeat  what  Mrs.  Hutch  said.  It  would  be  hard 
on  her,  and  hard  on  me.  She  grew  red  in  the  face;  her 
voice  grew  shriller  with  every  word.  My  poor  mother 
hung  her  head  where  she  stood;  the  children  stared  from 
their  corners;  the  frightened  baby  cried.  The  angry 
landlady  rehearsed  our  sins  like  a  prophet  foretelling 
doom.  We  owed  so  many  weeks'  rent;  we  were  too  lazy 
to  work;  we  never  intended  to  pay;  we  lived  on  others; 
we  deserved  to  be  put  out  without  warning.  She  re- 
proached my  mother  for  having  too  many  children;  she 
blamed  us  all  for  coming  to  America.  She  enumerated 
her  losses  through  nonpayment  of  her  rents;  told  us  that 
she  did  not  collect  the  amount  of  her  taxes;  showed  us 
how  our  irregularities  were  driving  a  poor  widow  to  ruin. 

My  mother  did  not  attempt  to  excuse  herself,  but 
when  Mrs.  Hutch  began  to  rail  against  my  absent 
father,  she  tried  to  put  in  a  word  in  his  defence.  The 
landlady  grew  all  the  shriller  at  that,  and  silenced  my 
mother  impatiently.  Sometimes  she  addressed  herself 
to  me.  I  always  stood  by,  if  I  was  at  home,  to  give 
my  mother  the  moral  support  of  my  dumb  sympathy. 
I  understood  that  Mrs.  Hutch  had  a  special  grudge 
against  me,  because  I  did  not  go  to  work  as  a  cash  girl 
and  earn  three  dollars  a  week.  I  wanted  to  explain  to 
her  how  I  was  preparing  myself  for  a  great  career,  and  I 
was  ready  to  promise  her  the  payment  of  the  arrears  as 
soon  as  I  began  to  get  rich.  But  the  landlady  would  not 
let  me  put  in  a  word.  And  I  was  sorry  for  her,  because 
she  seemed  to  be  having  such  a  bad  time. 

At  last  Mrs.  Hutch  got  up  to  leave,  marching  out  as 
determinedly  as  she  had  marched  in.   At  the  door  she 


THE  LANDLADY  313 

turned,  in  undiminished  wrath,  to  shoot  her  parting 
dart:  — 

"And  if  Mr.  Anton  does  not  bring  me  the  rent  on 
Monday,  I  will  serve  notice  of  eviction  on  Tuesday, 
without  fail." 

We  breathed  when  she  was  gone.  My  mother  wiped 
away  a  few  tears,  and  went  to  the  baby,  crying  in  the 
windowless,  air-tight  room. 

I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Isn't  she  queer,  mamma!"  I  said.  "She  never  re- 
members how  to  say  our  name.  She  insists  on  saying 
Anton  —  Anton.  Celia,  say  Anton."  And  I  made  the 
baby  laugh  by  imitating  the  landlady,  who  had  made 
her  cry. 

But  when  I  went  to  my  little  room  I  did  not  mock 
Mrs.  Hutch.  I  thought  about  her,  thought  long  and 
hard,  and  to  a  purpose.  I  decided  that  she  must  hear 
me  out  once.  She  must  understand  about  my  plans, 
my  future,  my  good  intentions.  It  was  too  irrational  to 
go  on  like  this,  we  living  in  fear  of  her,  she  in  distrust  of 
us.  If  Mrs.  Hutch  would  only  trust  me,  and  the  tax  col- 
lectors would  trust  her,  we  could  all  live  happily  forever. 

I  was  the  more  certain  that  my  argument  would  pre- 
vail with  the  landlady,  if  only  I  could  make  her  listen, 
because  I  understood  her  point  of  view.  I  even  sympa- 
thized with  her.  What  she  said  about  the  babies,  for 
instance,  was  not  all  unreasonable  to  me.  There  was 
this  last  baby,  my  mother's  sixth,  born  on  Mrs.  Hutch's 
premises  —  yes,  in  the  windowless,  air-tight  bedroom. 
Was  there  any  need  of  this  baby?  When  May  was  born, 
two  years  earlier,  on  Wheeler  Street,  I  had  accepted  her; 
after  a  while  I  even  welcomed  her.  She  was  born  an 
American,  and  it  was  something  to  me  to  have  one 


314  THE   PROMISED   LAND 

genuine  American  relative.  I  had  to  sit  up  with  her  the 
whole  of  her  first  night  on  earth,  and  I  questioned 
her  about  the  place  she  came  from,  and  so  we  got 
acquainted.  As  my  mother  was  so  ill  that  my  sister 
Frieda,  who  was  nurse,  and  the  doctor  from  the  dis- 
pensary had  all  they  could  do  to  take  care  of  her,  the 
baby  remained  in  my  charge  a  good  deal,  and  so  I  got 
used  to  her.  But  when  Celia  came  I  was  two  years  older, 
and  my  outlook  was  broader;  I  could  see  around  a 
baby's  charms,  and  discern  the  disadvantages  of  posses- 
sing the  baby.  I  was  supplied  with  all  kinds  of  relatives 
now  —  I  had  a  brother-in-law,  and  an  American-born 
nephew,  who  might  become  a  President.  Moreover, 
I  knew  there  was  not  enough  to  eat  before  the  baby's 
advent,  and  she  did  not  bring  any  supplies  with  her 
that  I  could  see.  The  baby  was  one  too  many.  There 
was  no  need  of  her.  I  resented  her  existence.  I  recorded 
my  resentment  in  my  journal. 

I  was  pleased  with  my  broad-mindedness,  that  en- 
abled me  to  see  all  sides  of  the  baby  question.  I  could 
regard  even  the  rent  question  disinterestedly,  like  a 
philosopher  reviewing  natural  phenomena.  It  seemed 
not  unreasonable  that  Mrs.  Hutch  should  have  a  crav- 
ing for  the  rent  as  such.  A  school-girl  dotes  on  her 
books,  a  baby  cries  for  its  rattle,  and  a  landlady  yearns 
for  her  rents.  I  could  easily  believe  that  it  was  doing 
Mrs.  Hutch  spiritual  violence  to  withhold  the  rent  from 
her;  and  hence  the  vehemence  with  which  she  pursued 
the  arrears. 

Yes,  I  could  analyze  the  landlady  very  nicely.  I  was 
certainly  qualified  to  act  as  peacemaker  between  her  and 
my  family.  But  I  must  go  to  her  own  house,  and  not  on 
a  rent  day.  Saturday  evening,  when  she  was  embittered 


THE  LANDLADY  315 

by  many  disappointments,  was  no  time  to  approach  her 
with  diplomatic  negotiations.  I  must  go  to  her  house  on 
a  day  of  good  omen. 

And  I  went,  as  soon  as  my  father  could  give  me  a 
week's  rent  to  take  along.  I  found  Mrs.  Hutch  in  the 
gloom  of  a  long,  faded  parlor.  Divested  of  the  ample 
black  coat  and  widow's  bonnet  in  which  I  had  always 
seen  her,  her  presence  would  have  been  less  formidable 
had  I  not  been  conscious  that  I  was  a  mere  rumpled 
sparrow  fallen  into  the  lion's  den.  When  I  had  delivered 
the  money,  I  should  have  begun  my  speech;  but  I  did 
not  know  what  came  first  of  all  there  was  to  say.  While 
I  hesitated,  Mrs.  Hutch  observed  me.  She  noticed  my 
books,  and  asked  about  them.  I  thought  this  was  my 
opening,  and  I  showed  her  eagerly  my  Latin  grammar, 
my  geometry,  my  Virgil.  I  began  to  tell  her  how  I  was 
to  go  to  college,  to  fit  myself  to  write  poetry,  and  get 
rich,  and  pay  the  arrears.  But  Mrs.  Hutch  cut  me  short 
at  the  mention  of  college.  She  broke  out  with  her  old 
reproaches,  and  worked  herself  into  a  worse  fury  than  I 
had  ever  witnessed  before.  I  was  all  alone  in  the  tempest, 
and  a  very  old  lady  was  sitting  on  a  sofa,  drinking  tea; 
and  the  tidy  on  the  back  of  the  sofa  was  sliding  down. 

I  was  so  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  of  the  on- 
slaught, I  felt  so  helpless  to  defend  myself,  that  I  could 
only  stand  and  stare  at  Mrs.  Hutch.  She  kept  on  rail- 
ing without  stopping  for  breath,  repeating  herself  over 
and  over.  At  last  I  ceased  to  hear  what  she  said ;  I  be- 
came hypnotized  by  the  rapid  motions  of  her  mouth. 
Then  the  moving  tidy  caught  my  eye  and  the  spell  was 
broken.  I  went  over  to  the  sofa  with  a  decided  step  and 
carefully  replaced  the  tidy. 

It  was  now  the  landlady's  turn  to  stare,  and  I  stared 


316  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

back,  surprised  at  my  own  action.  The  old  lady  also 
stared,  her  teacup  suspended  under  her  nose.  The 
whole  thing  was  so  ridiculous!  I  had  come  on  such  a 
grand  mission,  ready  to  dictate  the  terms  of  a  noble 
peace.  I  was  met  with  anger  and  contumely;  the  dignity 
of  the  ambassador  of  peace  rubbed  off  at  a  touch,  like  the 
golden  dust  from  the  butterfly's  wing.  I  took  my  scold- 
ing like  a  meek  child;  and  then,  when  she  was  in  the 
middle  of  a  trenchant  phrase,  her  eye  fixed  daggerlike 
on  mine,  I  calmly  went  to  put  the  enemy's  house  in 
order!  It  was  ridiculous,  and  I  laughed. 

Immediately  I  was  sorry.  I  wanted  to  apologize,  but 
Mrs.  Hutch  did  n't  give  me  a  chance.  If  she  had  been 
harsh  before,  she  was  terrific  now.  Did  I  come  there  to 
insult  her?  —  she  wanted  to  know.  Was  n't  it  enough 
that  I  and  my  family  lived  on  her,  that  I  must  come  to 
her  on  purpose  to  rile  her  with  my  talk  about  college 
—  college!  these  beggars!  —  and  laugh  in  her  face? 
"What  did  you  come  for?  Who  sent  you?  Why  do  you 
stand  there  staring?  Say  something!  College!  these 
beggars !  And  do  you  think  I  '11  keep  you  till  you  go  to 
college?  You,  learning  geometry!  Did  you  ever  figure 
out  how  much  rent  your  father  owes  me?  You  are  all  too 
lazy  —  Don't  say  a  word!  Don't  speak  to  me!  Coming 
here  to  laugh  in  my  face !  I  don't  believe  you  can  say  one 
sensible  word.  Latin  —  and  French !  Oh,  these  beggars! 
You  ought  to  go  to  work,  if  you  know  enough  to  do  one 
sensible  thing.  College  !  Go  home  and  tell  your  father 
never  to  send  you  again.  Laughing  in  my  face  —  and 
staring!  Why  don't  you  say  something?  How  old  are 
you?" 

Mrs.  Hutch  actually  stopped,  and  I  jumped  into  the 
pause. 


THE  LANDLADY  S17 

"I'm  seventeen,"  I  said  quickly,  "and  I  feel  like 
seventy." 

This  was  too  much,  even  for  me  who  had  spoken.  I 
had  not  meant  to  say  the  last.  It  broke  out,  like  my 
wicked  laugh.  I  was  afraid,  if  I  stayed  any  longer,  Mrs. 
Hutch  would  have  the  apoplexy;  and  I  felt  that  I  was 
going  to  cry.  I  moved  towards  the  door,  but  the  land- 
lady got  in  another  speech  before  I  had  escaped. 

"Seventeen  —  seventy!  And  looks  like  twelve!  The 
child  is  silly.  Can't  even  tell  her  own  age.  No  wonder, 
with  her  Latin,  and  French,  and  — " 

I  did  cry  when  I  got  outside,  and  I  did  n't  care  if  I  was 
noticed.  What  was  the  use  of  anything?  Everything  I 
did  was  wrong.  Everything  I  tried  to  do  for  Mrs.  Hutch 
turned  out  bad.  I  tried  to  sell  papers,  for  the  sake  of  the 
rent,  and  nobody  wanted  the  "Searchlight,"  and  I  was 
told  it  was  not  a  nice  business.  I  wanted  to  take  her 
into  my  confidence,  and  she  would  n't  hear  a  word,  but 
scolded  and  called  me  names.  She  was  an  unreasonable, 
ungrateful  landlady.  I  wished  she  would  put  us  out,  then 
we  should  be  rid  of  her.  —  But  was  n't  it  funny  about 
that  tidy?  What  made  me  do  that?  I  never  meant  to. 
Curious,  the  way  we  sometimes  do  things  we  don't  want 
to  at  all.  —  The  old  lady  must  be  deaf;  she  did  n't  say 
anything  all  that  time.  —  Oh,  I  have  a  whole  book  of  the 
"iEneid"  to  review,  and  it's  getting  late.  I  must  hurry 
home.  * 

It  was  impossible  to  remain  despondent  long.  The 
landlady  came  only  once  a  week,  I  reflected,  as  I  walked, 
and  the  rest  of  the  time  I  was  surrounded  by  friends. 
Everybody  was  good  to  me,  at  home,  of  course,  and  at 
school;  and  there  was  Miss  Dillingham,  and  her  friend 
who  took  me  out  in  the  country  to  see  the  autumn 


318     *  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

leaves,  and  her  friend's  friend  who  lent  me  books,  and 
Mr.  Hurd,  who  put  my  poems  in  the  "  Transcript,' ' 
and  gave  me  books  almost  every  time  I  came,  and  a 
dozen  others  who  did  something  good  for  me  all  the 
time,  besides  the  several  dozen  who  wrote  me  such  nice 
letters.  Friends?  If  I  named  one  for  every  block  I  passed 
I  should  not  get  through  before  I  reached  home.  There 
was  Mr.  Strong,  too,  and  he  wanted  me  to  meet  his 
wife  and  little  girl.  And  Mr.  Pastor!  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten Mr.  Pastor.  I  arrived  at  the  corner  of  Washing- 
ton and  Dover  Streets,  on  my  way  home,  and  looked 
into  Mr.  Pastor's  showy  drug  store  as  I  passed,  and  that 
reminded  me  of  the  history  of  my  latest  friendship. 

My  cough  had  been  pretty  bad  —  kept  me  awake 
nights.  My  voice  gave  out  frequently.  The  teachers 
had  spoken  to  me  several  times,  suggesting  that  I  ought 
to  see  a  doctor.  Of  course  the  teachers  did  not  know 
that  I  could  not  afford  a  doctor,  but  I  could  go  to 
the  free  dispensary,  and  I  did.  They  told  me  to  come 
again,  and  again,  and  I  lost  precious  hours  sitting  in  the 
waiting-room,  watching  for  my  turn.  I  was  examined, 
thumped,  studied,  and  sent  out  with  prescriptions  and 
innumerable  directions.  All  that  was  said  about  food, 
fresh  air,  sunny  rooms,  etc.,  was,  of  course,  impossible; 
but  I  would  try  the  medicine.  A  bottle  of  medicine  was 
a  definite  thing  with  a  fixed  price.  You  either  could  or 
could  not  afford  it,  on  a  given  day.  Once  you  began 
with  milk  and  eggs  and  such  things,  there  was  no  end  of 
it.  You  were  always  going  around  the  corner  for  more, 
till  the  grocer  said  he  could  give  no  more  credit.  No; 
the  medicine  bottle  was  the  only  safe  thing. 

I  had  taken  several  bottles,  and  was  told  that  I  was 
looking  better,  when  I  went,  one  day,  to  have  my  pre- 


THE  LANDLADY  319 

scription  renewed.  It  was  just  after  a  hard  rain,  and 
the  pools  on  the  broken  pavements  were  full  of  blue  sky. 
I  was  delighted  with  the  beautiful  reflections;  there 
were  even  the  white  clouds  moving  across  the  blue, 
there,  at  my  feet,  on  the  pavement !  I  walked  with  my 
head  down  all  the  way  to  the  drug  store,  which  was  all 
right;  but  I  should  not  have  done  it  going  back,  with 
the  new  bottle  of  medicine  in  my  hand. 

In  front  of  a  cigar  store,  halfway  between  Washing- 
ton Street  and  Harrison  Avenue,  stood  a  wooden  Indian 
with  a  package  of  wooden  cigars  in  his  hand.  My  eyes 
on  the  shining  rain  pools,  I  walked  plump  into  the  In- 
dian, and  the  bottle  was  knocked  out  of  my  hand  and 
broke  with  a  crash. 

I  was  horrified  at  the  catastrophe.  The  medicine 
cost  fifty  cents.  My  mother  had  given  me  the  last 
money  in  the  house.  I  must  not  be  without  my  medi- 
cine; the  dispensary  doctor  was  very  emphatic  about 
that.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  get  sick  and  have  to 
stay  out  of  school.  What  was  to  be  done? 

I  made  up  my  mind  in  less  than  five  minutes.  I  went 
back  to  the  drug  store  and  asked  for  Mr.  Pastor  himself. 
He  knew  me;  he  often  sold  me  postage  stamps,  and 
joked  about  my  large  correspondence,  and  heard  a  good 
deal  about  my  friends.  He  came  out,  on  this  occasion, 
from  his  little  office  in  the  back  of  the  store;  and  I  told 
him  of  my  accident,  and  that  there  was  no  more  money 
at  home,  and  asked  him  to  give  me  another  bottle,  to  be 
paid  for  as  soon  as  possible.  My  father  had  a  job  as 
night  watchman  in  a  store.  I  should  be  able  to  pay  very 
soon. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Pastor; 
"very  glad  to  oblige  you.  It's  doing  you  good,  is  n't  it? 


320  THE  PROMISED   LAND 

—  That's  right.  You're  such  a  studious  young  lady, 
with  all  those  books,  and  so  many  letters  to  write  —  you 
need  something  to  build  you  up.  There  you  are.  —  Oh, 
don't  mention  it!  Any  time  at  all.  And  look  out  for 
wild  Indians!" 

Of  course  we  were  great  friends  after  that,  and  this  is 
the  way  my  troubles  often  ended  on  Dover  Street.  To 
bump  into  a  wooden  Indian  was  to  bump  into  good  luck, 
a  hundred  times  a  week.  No  wonder  I  was  happy  most 
of  the  time. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  BURNING  BUSH 

Just  when  Mrs.  Hutch  was  most  worried  about  the 
error  of  my  ways,  I  entered  on  a  new  chapter  of  adven- 
tures, even  more  remote  from  the  cash  girl's  career  than 
Latin  and  geometry.  But  I  ought  not  to  name  such 
harsh  things  as  landladies  at  the  opening  of  the  fairy 
story  of  my  girlhood.  I  have  reached  what  was  the 
second  transformation  of  my  life,  as  truly  as  my  coming 
to  America  was  the  first  great  transformation. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  in  one  of  his  delightful  es- 
says, credits  the  lover  with  a  feeling  of  remorse  and 
shame  at  the  contemplation  of  that  part  of  his  life  which 
he  lived  without  his  beloved,  content  with  his  barren 
existence.  It  is  with  just  such  a  feeling  of  remorse  that  I 
look  back  to  my  bookworm  days,  before  I  began  the 
study  of  natural  history  outdoors;  and  with  a  feeling  of 
shame  akin  to  the  lover's  I  confess  how  late  in  my  life 
nature  took  the  first  place  in  my  affections. 

The  subject  of  nature  study  is  better  developed  in  the 
public  schools  to-day  than  it  was  in  my  time.  I  remem- 
ber my  teacher  in  the  Chelsea  grammar  school  who  en- 
couraged us  to  look  for  different  kinds  of  grasses  in  the 
empty  lots  near  home,  and  to  bring  to  school  samples 
of  the  cereals  we  found  in  our  mothers'  pantries.  I 
brought  the  grasses  and  cereals,  as  I  did  everything  the 
teacher  ordered,  but  I  was  content  when  nature  study 
was  over  and  the  arithmetic  lesson  began.  I  was  not 
interested,  and  the  teacher  did  not  make  it  interesting. 


322  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

!  In  the  boys'  books  I  was  fond  of  reading  I  came  across 
all  sorts  of  heroes,  and  I  sympathized  with  them  all. 
The  boy  who  ran  away  to  sea;  the  boy  who  delighted  in 
the  society  of  ranchmen  and  cowboys;  the  stage-struck 
boy,  whose  ambition  was  to  drive  a  pasteboard  chariot 
in  a  circus;  the  boy  who  gave  up  his  holidays  in  order  to 
earn  money  for  books;  the  bad  boy  who  played  tricks  on 
people;  the  clever  boy  who  invented  amusing  toys  for 
his  blind  little  sister  —  all  these  boys  I  admired.  I  could 
put  myself  in  the  place  of  any  one  of  these  heroes,  and 
delight  in  their  delights.  But  there  was  one  sort  of  hero 
I  never  could  understand,  and  that  was  the  boy  whose 
favorite  reading  was  natural  history,  who  kept  an 
aquarium,  collected  beetles,  and  knew  all  about  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Agassiz.  This  style  of  boy  always  had  a 
seafaring  uncle,  or  a  missionary  aunt,  who  sent  him  all 
sorts  of  queer  things  from  China  and  the  South  Sea 
Islands ;  and  the  conversation  between  this  boy  and  the 
seafaring  uncle  home  on  a  visit,  I  was  perfectly  willing 
to  skip.  The  impossible  hero  usually  kept  snakes  in  a 
box  in  the  barn,  where  his  little  sister  was  fond  of  play- 
ing with  her  little  friends.  The  snakes  escaped  at  least 
once  before  the  end  of  the  story;  and  the  things  the  boy 
said  to  the  frightened  little  girls,  about  the  harmless  and 
fascinating  qualities  of  snakes,  was  something  I  had  no 
patience  to  read. 

No,  I  did  not  care  for  natural  history.  I  would  read 
about  travels,  about  deserts,  and  nameless  islands,  and 
strange  peoples;  but  snakes  and  birds  and  minerals  and 
butterflies  did  not  interest  me  in  the  least.  I  visited  the 
Natural  History  Museum  once  or  twice,  because  it  was 
my  way  to  enter  every  open  door,  so  as  to  miss  nothing 
that  was  free  to  the  public;  but  the  curious  monsters 


THE  BURNING   BUSH  323 

that  filled  the  glass  cases  and  adorned  the  walls  and 
ceilings  failed  to  stir  my  imagination,  and  the  slimy 
things  that  floated  in  glass  vessels  were  too  horrid  for  a 
second  glance. 

Of  all  the  horrid  things  that  ever  passed  under  my  eyes 
when  I  lifted  my  nose  from  my  book,  spiders  were  the 
worst.  Mice  were  bad  enough,  and  so  were  flies  and 
worms  and  June  bugs;  but  spiders  were  absolutely  the 
most  loathsome  creatures  I  knew.  And  yet  it  was  the 
spider  that  opened  my  eyes  to  the  wonders  of  nature, 
and  touched  my  girlish  happiness  with  the  hues  of  the 
infinite. 

And  it  happened  at  Hale  House. 

It  was  not  Dr.  Hale,  though  it  might  have  been,  who 
showed  me  the  way  to  the  settlement  house  on  Garland 
Street  which  bears  his  name.  Hale  House  is  situated  in 
the  midst  of  the  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets  and  alleys 
that  constitutes  the  slum  of  which  Harrison  Avenue  is 
the  backbone,  and  of  which  Dover  Street  is  a  member. 

Bearing  in  mind  the  fact  that  there  are  almost  no 
playgrounds  in  all  this  congested  district,  you  will  un- 
derstand that  Hale  House  has  plenty  of  work  on  its 
hands  to  carry  a  little  sunshine  into  the  grimy  tenement 
homes.  The  beautiful  story  of  how  that  is  done  cannot 
be  told  here,  but  what  Hale  House  did  for  me  I  may  not 
omit  to  mention. 

It  was  my  brother  Joseph  who  discovered  Hale  House. 
He  started  a  debating  club,  and  invited  his  chums  to 
help  him  settle  the  problems  of  the  Republic  on  Sunday 
afternoons.  The  club  held  its  first  session  in  our  empty 
parlor  on  Dover  Street,  and  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  put  on  a  sound  basis  at 
last,  when  the  numerous  babies  belonging  to  our  estab- 


324j  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

lishment  broke  up  the  meeting,  leaving  the  Adminis- 
tration in  suspense  as  to  its  future  course. 

The  next  meeting  was  held  in  Isaac  Maslinsky's 
parlor,  and  the  orators  were  beginning  to  jump  to  their 
feet  and  shake  their  fists  at  each  other,  in  excellent 
parliamentary  form,  when  Mrs.  Maslinsky  sallied  in,  to 
smile  at  the  boys'  excitement.  But  at  the  sight  of  seven 
pairs  of  boys'  boots  scuffling  on  her  cherished  parlor 
carpet,  the  fringed  cover  of  the  centre  table  hanging  by 
one  corner,  and  the  plush  photograph  album  uncere- 
moniously laid  aside,  indignation  took  the  place  of  good 
humor  in  Mrs.  Maslinsky's  ample  bosom,  and  she  or- 
dered the  boys  to  clear  out,  threatening  "Ike"  with 
dire  vengeance  if  ever  again  he  ventured  to  enter  the 
parlor  with  ungentle  purpose. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Harry  Rubinstein  offered 
the  club  the  hospitality  of  his  parlor,  and  the  meeting 
began  satisfactorily.  The  subject  on  the  table  was  the 
Tariff,  and  the  pros  and  antis  were  about  evenly  divided. 
Congress  might  safely  have  taken  a  nap,  with  the  Hub 
Debating  Club  to  handle  its  affairs,  if  Harry  Rubin- 
stein's big  brother  Jake  had  not  interfered.  He  came 
out  of  the  kitchen,  where  he  had  been  stuffing  the  baby 
with  peanuts,  and  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  parlor  and 
winked  at  the  dignified  chairman.  The  chairman  turned 
his  back  on  him,  whereupon  Jake  pelted  him  with  pea- 
nut shells.  He  mocked  the  speakers,  and  called  them 
"kids,"  and  wanted  to  know  how  they  could  tell  the 
Tariff  from  a  sunstroke,  anyhow.  "We've  got  to  have 
free  trade,"  he  mocked.  "Pa,  listen  to  the  kids!  'In 
the  interests  of  the  American  laborer.'  Hoo-ray !  Listen 
to  the  kids,  pa!" 

Flesh  and  blood  could  not  bear  this.   The  political 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  325 

reformers  adjourned  indefinitely,  and  the  club  was  in 
danger  of  extinction  for  want  of  a  sheltering  roof,  when 
one  of  the  members  discovered  that  Hale  House,  on 
Garland  Street,  was  waiting  to  welcome  the  club. 

How  the  debating-club  prospered  in  the  genial  at- 
mosphere of  the  settlement  house;  how  from  a  little  club 
it  grew  to  be  a  big  club,  as  the  little  boys  became  young 
men;  how  Joseph  and  Isaac  and  Harry  and  the  rest  won 
prizes  in  public  debates;  how  they  came  to  be  a  part  of 
the  multiple  influence  for  good  that  issues  from  Garland 
Street  —  all  this  is  a  piece  of  the  history  of  Hale  House, 
whose  business  in  the  slums  is  to  mould  the  restless  child- 
ren on  the  street  corners  into  noble  men  and  women. 
I  brought  the  debating-club  into  my  story  just  to  show 
how  naturally  the  children  of  the  slums  drift  toward  their 
salvation,  if  only  some  island  of  safety  lies  in  the  course 
of  their  innocent  activities.  Not  a  child  in  the  slums  is 
born  to  be  lost.  They  are  all  born  to  be  saved,  and  the 
raft  that  carries  them  unharmed  through  the  perilous 
torrent  of  tenement  life  is  the  child's  unconscious  as- 
piration for  the  best.  But  there  must  be  lighthouses 
to  guide  him  midstream. 

Dora  followed  Joseph  to  Hale  House,  joining  a  club 
for  little  girls  which  has  since  become  famous  in  the 
Hale  House  district.  The  leader  of  this  club,  under 
pretence  of  teaching  the  little  girls  the  proper  way  to 
sweep  and  make  beds,  artfully  teaches  them  how  to 
beautify  a  tenement  home  by^means  of  noble  living. 

Joseph  and  Dora  were  so  enthusiastic  about  Hale 
House  that  I  had  to  go  over  and  see  what  it  was  all 
about.  And  I  found  the  Natural  History  Club. 

I  do  not  know  how  Mrs.  Black,  who  was  then  the 
resident,  persuaded    me  to  try  the  Natural   History 


326  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Club,  in  spite  of  my  aversion  for  bugs.  I  suppose  she 
tried  me  in  various  girls'  clubs,  and  found  that  I  did  not 
fit,  any  more  than  I  fitted  in  the  dancing-club  that  I 
attempted  years  before.  I  dare  say  she  decided  that  I 
was  an  old  maid,  and  urged  me  to  come  to  the  meetings 
of  the  Natural  History  Club,  which  was  composed  of 
adults.  The  members  of  this  club  were  not  people  from 
the  neighborhood,  I  understood,  but  workers  at  Hale 
House  and  their  friends;  and  they  often  had  eminent 
naturalists,  travellers,  and  other  notables  lecture  before 
them.  My  curiosity  to  see  a  real  live  naturalist  probably 
induced  me  to  accept  Mrs.  Black's  invitation  in  the  end; 
for  up  to  that  time  I  had  never  met  any  one  who  en- 
joyed the  creepy  society  of  snakes  and  worms,  except  in 
books. 

The  Natural  History  Club  sat  in  a  ring  around  the 
reception  room,  facing  the  broad  doorway  of  the  ad- 
joining room.  Mrs.  Black  introduced  me,  and  I  said 
"Glad  to  meet  you"  all  around  the  circle,  and  sat  down 
in  a  kindergarten  chair  beside  the  piano.  It  was  Friday 
evening,  and  I  had  the  sense  of  leisure  which  pervades 
the  school-girl's  consciousness  when  there  is  to  be  no 
school  on  the  morrow.  I  liked  the  pleasant  room,  pleas- 
anter  than  any  at  home.  I  liked  the  faces  of  the  com- 
pany I  was  in.  I  was  prepared  to  have  an  agreeable 
evening,  even  if  I  was  a  little  bored. 

The  tall,  lean  gentleman  with  the  frank  blue  eyes  got 
up  to  read  the  minutes  of  the  last  meeting.  I  did  not 
understand  what  he  read,  but  I  noticed  that  it  gave  him 
great  satisfaction.  This  man  had  greeted  me  as  if  he  had 
been  waiting  for  my  coming  all  his  life.  What  did  Mrs. 
Black  call  him?  He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  he  was  happy 
to  be  alive.  I  liked  him.  Oh,  yes !  this  was  Mr.  Winthrop. 


THE  BURNING   BUSH  327 

I  let  my  thoughts  wander,  with  my  eyes,  all  around 
the  circle,  trying  to  read  the  characters  of  my  new 
friends  in  their  faces.  But  suddenly  my  attention  was 
arrested  by  a  word.  Mr.  Winthrop  had  finished  read- 
ing the  minutes,  and  was  introducing  the  speaker  of 
the  evening.  "We  are  very  fortunate  in  having  with  us 
Mr.  Emerson,  whom  we  all  know  as  an  authority  on 
spiders." 

Spiders  !  What  hard  luck!  Mr.  Winthrop  pronounced 
the  word  "spiders"  with  unmistakable  relish,  as  if  he 
doted  on  the  horrid  creatures;  but  I —  My  nerves 
contracted  into  a  tight  knot.  I  gripped  the  arms  of 
my  little  chair,  determined  not  to  run,  with  all  those 
strangers  looking  on.  I  watched  Mr.  Emerson,  to  see 
when  he  would  open  a  box  of  spiders.  I  recalled  a  hide- 
ous experience  of  long  ago,  when,  putting  on  a  dress  that 
had  hung  on  the  wall  for  weeks,  I  felt  a  thing  with  a 
hundred  legs  crawling  down  my  bare  arm,  and  shook  a 
spider  out  of  my  sleeve.  I  watched  the  lecturer,  but  I 
was  not  going  to  run.  It  was  too  bad  that  Mrs.  Black 
had  not  warned  me. 

After  a  while  I  realized  that  the  lecturer  had  no 
menagerie  in  his  pockets.  He  talked,  in  a  familiar  way, 
about  different  kinds  of  spiders  and  their  ways;  and 
as  he  talked,  he  wove  across  the  doorway,  where  he 
stood,  a  gigantic  spider's  web,  unwinding  a  ball  of  twine 
in  his  hand,  and  looping  various  lengths  on  invisible 
tacks  he  had  ready  in  the  door  frame. 

I  was  fascinated  by  the  progress  of  the  web.  I  forgot 
my  terrors;  I  began  to  follow  Mr.  Emerson's  discourse. 
I  was  surprised  to  hear  how  much  there  was  to  know 
about  a  dusty  little  spider,  besides  that  he  could  spin 
his  webs  as  fast  as  my  broom  could  sweep  them  away. 


328  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

The  drama  of  the  spider's  daily  life  became  very  real  to 
me  as  the  lecturer  went  on.  His  struggle  for  existence; 
his  wars  with  his  enemies;  his  wiles,  his  traps,  his  patient 
labors;  the  intricate  safeguards  of  his  simple  existence; 
the  fitness  of  his  body  for  his  surroundings,  of  his  in- 
stincts for  his  vital  needs  —  the  whole  picture  of  the 
spider's  pursuit  of  life  under  the  direction  of  definite 
laws  filled  me  with  a  great  wonder  and  left  no  room  in 
my  mind  for  repugnance  or  fear.  It  was  the  first  time 
the  natural  history  of  a  living  creature  had  been  pre- 
sented to  me  under  such  circumstances  that  I  could 
not  avoid  hearing  and  seeing,  and  I  was  surprised  at 
my  dulness  in  the  past  when  I  had  rejected  books  on 
natural  history. 

I  did  not  become  an  enthusiastic  amateur  naturalist 
at  once;  I  did  not  at  once  begin  to  collect  worms  and 
bugs.  But  on  the  next  sweeping-day  I  stood  on  a  chair, 
craning  my  neck,  to  study  the  spider  webs  I  discovered 
in  the  corners  of  the  ceiling;  and  one  or  two  webs  of  more 
than  ordinary  perfection  I  suffered  to  remain  undis- 
turbed for  weeks,  although  it  was  my  duty,  as  a  house- 
cleaner,  to  sweep  the  ceiling  clean.  I  began  to  watch  for 
the  mice  that  were  wont  to  scurry  across  the  floor  when 
the  house  slept  and  I  alone  waked.  I  even  placed  a  crust 
for  them  on  the  threshold  of  my  room,  and  cultivated 
a  breathless  intimacy  with  them,  when  the  little  gray 
beasts  acknowledged  my  hospitality  by  nibbling  my 
crust  in  full  sight.  And  so  by  degrees  I  came  to  a  better 
understanding  of  my  animal  neighbors  on  all  sides,  and 
I  began  to  look  forward  to  the  meetings  of  the  Natural 
History  Club. 

The  club  had  frequent  field  excursions,  in  addition  to 
the  regular  meetings.  At  the  seashore,  in  the  woods,  in 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  829 

the  fields;  at  high  tide  and  low  tide,  in  summer  and 
winter,  by  sunlight  and  by  moonlight,  the  marvellous 
story  of  orderly  nature  was  revealed  to  me,  in  fragments 
that  allured  the  imagination  and  made  me  beg  for  more. 
Some  of  the  members  of  the  club  were  school-teachers, 
accustomed  to  answering  questions.  All  of  them  were 
patient;  some  of  them  took  special  pains  with  me.  But 
nobody  took  me  seriously  as  a  member  of  the  club. 
They  called  me  the  club  mascot,  and  appointed  me 
curator  of  the  club  museum,  which  was  not  in  existence, 
at  a  salary  of  ten  cents  a  year,  which  was  never  paid. 
And  I  was  well  pleased  with  my  unique  position  in  the 
club,  delighted  with  my  new  friends,  enraptured  with 
my  new  study. 

More  and  more,  as  the  seasons  rolled  by,  and  page 
after  page  of  the  book  of  nature  was  turned  before  my 
eager  eyes,  did  I  feel  the  wonder  and  thrill  of  the  revela- 
tions of  science,  till  all  my  thoughts  became  colored  with 
the  tints  of  infinite  truths.  My  days  arranged  themselves 
around  the  meetings  of  the  club  as  a  centre.  The  whole 
structure  of  my  life  was  transfigured  by  my  novel  ex- 
periences outdoors.  I  realized,  with  a  shock  at  first,  but 
afterwards  with  complacency,  that  books  were  taking 
a  secondary  place  in  my  life,  my  irregular  studies  in 
natural  history  holding  the  first  place.  I  began  to  enjoy 
the  Natural  History  rooms;  and  I  was  obliged  to  admit 
to  myself  that  my  heart  hung  with  a  more  thrilling 
suspense  over  the  fate  of  some  beans  I  had  planted  in  a 
window  box  than  over  the  fortunes  of  the  classic  hero 
about  whom  we  were  reading  at  school. 

But  for  all  my  enthusiasm  about  animals,  plants,  and 
rocks,  —  for  all  my  devotion  to  the  Natural  History 
Club,  —  I  did  not  become  a  thorough  naturalist.   My 


330  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

scientific  friends  were  right  not  to  take  me  seriously. 
Mr.  Winthrop,  in  his  delightfully  frank  way,  called  me  a 
fraud;  and  I  did  not  resent  it.  I  dipped  into  zoology, 
botany,  geology,  ornithology,  and  an  infinite  number  of 
other  ologies,  as  the  activities  of  the  club  or  of  particu- 
lar members  of  it  gave  me  opportunity,  but  I  made  no 
systematic  study  of  any  branch  of  science;  at  least  not 
until  I  went  to  college.  For  what  enthralled  my  imag- 
ination in  the  whole  subject  of  natural  history  was  not 
the  orderly  array  of  facts,  but  the  glimpse  I  caught, 
through  this  or  that  fragment  of  science,  of  the  grand 
principles  underlying  the  facts.  By  asking  questions, 
by  listening  when  my  wise  friends  talked,  by  reading, 
by  pondering  and  dreaming,  I  slowly  gathered  together 
the  kaleidoscopic  bits  of  the  stupendous  panorama 
which  is  painted  in  the  literature  of  Darwinism.  Every- 
thing I  had  ever  learned  at  school  was  illumined  by  this 
new  knowledge;  the  world  lay  newly  made  under  my 
eyes.  Vastly  as  my  mind  had  stretched  to  embrace  the 
idea  of  a  great  country,  when  I  exchanged  Polotzk 
for  America,  it  was  no  such  enlargement  as  I  now  ex- 
perienced, when  in  place  of  the  measurable  earth,  with 
its  paltry  tale  of  historic  centuries,  I  was  given  the 
illimitable  universe  to  contemplate,  with  the  number- 
less seons  of  infinite  time. 

As  the  meaning  of  nature  was  deepened  for  me,  so 
was  its  aspect  beautified.  Hitherto  I  had  loved  in  na- 
ture the  spectacular,  —  the  blazing  sunset,  the  whirling 
tempest,  the  flush  of  summer,  the  snow- wonder  of  win- 
ter. Now,  for  the  first  time,  my  heart  was  satisfied  with 
the  microscopic  perfection  of  a  solitary  blossom.  The 
harmonious  murmur  of  autumn  woods  broke  up  into  a 
hundred  separate  melodies,  as  the  pelting  acorn,  the 


THE  BURNING   BUSH  331 

scurrying  squirrel,  the  infrequent  chirp  of  the  lingering 
cricket,  and  the  soft  speed  of  ripe  pine  cones  through 
dense-grown  branches,  each  struck  its  discriminate 
chord  in  the  scented  air.  The  outdoor  world  was  magni- 
fied in  every  dimension;  inanimate  things  were  vivified; 
living  things  were  dignified. 

No  two  persons  set  the  same  value  on  any  given  thing, 
and  so  it  may  very  well  be  that  I  am  boasting  of  the 
enrichment  of  my  life  through  the  study  of  natural 
history  to  ears  that  hear  not.  I  need  only  recall  my 
own  obtuseness  to  the  subject,  before  the  story  of  the 
spider  sharpened  my  senses,  to  realize  that  these  con- 
fessions of  a  nature  lover  may  bore  every  other  person 
who  reads  them.  But  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  concerned 
about  the  reader  at  this  point.  I  never  hope  to  explain 
to  my  neighbor  the  exact  value  of  a  winter  sunrise  in  my 
spiritual  economy,  but  I  know  that  my  life  has  grown 
better  since  I  learned  to  distinguish  between  a  butterfly 
and  a  moth;  that  my  faith  in  man  is  the  greater  because 
I  have  watched  for  the  coming  of  the  song  sparrow  in 
the  spring;  and  my  thoughts  of  immortality  are  the  less 
wavering  because  I  have  cherished  the  winter  chickweed 
on  my  lawn. 

Those  who  find  their  greatest  intellectual  and  emo- 
tional satisfaction  in  the  study  of  nature  are  apt  to  refer 
their  spiritual  problems  also  to  science.  That  is  how  it 
went  with  me.  Long  [before  my  introduction  to  natu- 
ral history  I  had  realized,  with  an  uneasy  sense  of  the 
breaking  of  peace,  that  the  questions  which  I  thought  to 
have  been  settled  years  before  were  beginning  to  tease 
me  anew.  In  Russia  I  had  practised  a  prescribed  relig- 
ion, with  little  faith  in  what  I  professed,  and  a  restless 
questioning  of  the  universe.  When  I  came  to  America  I 


332  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

lightly  dropped  the  religious  forms  that  I  had  half 
mocked  before,  and  contented  myself  with  a  few  novel 
phrases  employed  by  my  father  in  his  attempt  to  explain 
the  riddle  of  existence.  The  busy  years  flew  by,  when 
from  morning  till  night  I  was  preoccupied  with  the  pro- 
cess of  becoming  an  American;  and  no  question  arose  in 
my  mind  that  my  books  or  my  teachers  could  not  fully 
answer.  Then  came  a  time  when  the  ordinary  business 
of  my  girl's  life  discharged  itself  automatically,  and  I 
had  leisure  once  more  to  look  over  and  around  things. 
This  period  coinciding  with  my  moody  adolescence,  I 
rapidly  entangled  myself  in  a  net  of  doubts  and  ques- 
tions, after  the  well-known  manner  of  a  growing  girl.  I 
asked  once  more,  How  did  I  come  to  be?  —  and  I  found 
that  I  was  no  whit  wiser  than  poor  Heb'  Lebe,  whom 
I  had  despised  for  his  ignorance.  For  all  my  years  of 
America  and  schooling,  I  could  give  no  better  answer 
to  my  clamoring  questions  than  the  teacher  of  my  child- 
hood. Whence  came  the  fair  world?  Was  there  a  God, 
after  all?  And  if  so,  what  did  He  intend  when  He  made 
me? 

It  was  always  my  way,  if  I  wanted  anything,  to  turn 
my  daily  life  into  a  pursuit  of  that  thing.  "Have  you 
seen  the  treasure  I  seek?"  I  asked  of  every  man  I  met. 
And  if  it  was  God  that  I  desired,  I  made  all  my  friends 
search  their  hearts  for  evidence  of  His  being.  I  asked  all 
the  wise  people  I  knew  what  they  were  going  to  do  with 
themselves  after  death;  and  if  the  wise  failed  to  satisfy 
me,  I  questioned  the  simple,  and  listened  to  the  babies 
talking  in  their  sleep. 

Still  the  imperative  clamor  of  my  mind  remained 
unallayed.  Was  all  my  life  to  be  a  hunger  and  a  ques- 
tioning? I  complained  of  my  teachers,  who  stuffed  my 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  333 

head  with  facts  and  gave  my  soul  no  crumb  to  feed  on. 
I  blamed  the  stars  for  their  silence.  I  sat  up  nights 
brooding  over  the  emptiness  of  knowledge,  and  praying 
for  revelations. 

Sometimes  I  lived  for  days  in  a  chimera  of  doubts, 
feeling  that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  living  at  all  if  I 
was  never  to  know  why  I  was  born  and  why  I  could  not 
live  forever.  It  was  in  one  of  these  prolonged  moods 
that  I  heard  that  a  friend  of  mine,  a  distinguished 
man  of  letters  whom  I  greatly  admired,  was  coming  to 
Boston  for  a  short  visit.  A  terrific  New  England  bliz- 
zard arrived  some  hours  in  advance  of  my  friend's 
train,  but  so  intent  was  I  on  questioning  him  that  I 
disregarded  the  weather,  and  struggled  through  tower- 
ing snowdrifts,  in  the  teeth  of  the  wild  wind,  to  the  rail- 
road station.  There  I  nearly  perished  of  weariness  while 
waiting  for  the  train,  which  was  delayed  by  the  storm. 
But  when  my  friend  emerged  from  one  of  the  snow- 
crusted  cars  I  was  rewarded;  for  the  blizzard  had  kept 
the  reporters  away,  and  the  great  man  could  give  me  his 
undivided  attention. 

No  doubt  he  understood  the  pressing  importance  of 
the  matter  to  me,  from  the  trouble  I  had  taken  to 
secure  an  early  interview  with  him.  He  heard  me  out 
very  soberly,  and  answered  my  questions  as  honestly 
as  a  thinking  man  could.  Not  a  word  of  what  he  said 
remains  in  my  mind,  but  I  remember  going  away  with 
the  impression  that  it  was  possible  to  live  without 
knowing  everything,  after  all,  and  that  I  might  even 
try  to  be  happy  in  a  world  full  of  riddles. 

In  such  ways  as  this  I  sought  peace  of  mind,  but  I 
never  achieved  more  than  a  brief  truce.  I  was  coming 
to  believe  that  only  the  stupid  could  be  happy,  and  that 


334  THE   PROMISED  LAND 

life  was  pretty  hard  on  the  philosophical,  when  the  great 
new  interest  of  science  came  into  my  life,  and  scattered 
my  blue  devils  as  the  sun  scatters  the  night  damps. 

Some  of  my  friends  in  the  Natural  History  Club  were 
deeply  versed  in  the  principles  of  evolutionary  science, 
and  were  able  to  guide  me  in  my  impetuous  rush  to  learn 
everything  in  a  day.  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  deduce,  from 
the  conglomeration  of  isolated  facts  that  I  picked  up  in 
the  lectures,  the  final  solution  of  all  my  problems.  It 
took  both  patience  and  wisdom  to  check  me  and  at  the 
same  time  satisfy  me,  I  have  no  doubt;  but  then  I  was 
always  fortunate  in  my  friends.  Wisdom  and  patience 
in  plenty  were  spent  on  me,  and  I  was  instructed  and 
inspired  and  comforted.  Of  course  my  wisest  teacher 
was  not  able  to  tell  me  how  the  original  spark  of  life  was 
kindled,  nor  to  point  out,  on  the  starry  map  of  heaven, 
my  future  abode.  The  bread  of  absolute  knowledge  I  do 
not  hope  to  taste  in  this  life.  But  all  creation  was  re- 
modelled on  a  grander  scale  by  the  utterances  of  my 
teachers;  and  my  problems,  though  they  deepened  with 
the  expansion  of  all  namable  phenomena,  were  carried 
up  to  the  heights  of  the  impersonal,  and  ceased  to  tor- 
ment me.  Seeing  how  life  and  death,  beginning  and  end, 
were  all  parts  of  the  process  of  being,  it  mattered  less  in 
what  particular  ripple  of  the  flux  of  existence  I  found 
myself.  If  past  time  was  a  trooping  of  similar  yester- 
days, back  over  the  unbroken  millenniums,  to  the  first 
moment,  it  was  simple  to  think  of  future  time  as  a 
trooping  of  knowable  to-days,  on  and  on,  to  infinity. 
Possibly,  also,  the  spark  of  life  that  had  persisted 
through  the  geological  ages,  under  a  million  million 
disguises,  was  vital  enough  to  continue  for  another 
earth-age,  in  some  shape  as  potent  as  the  first  or  last. 


THE   BURNING   BUSH  335 

Thinking  in  seons  and  in  races,  instead  of  in  years  and 
individuals,  somehow  lightened  the  burden  of  intelli- 
gence, and  filled  me  anew  with  a  sense  of  youth  and 
well-being,  that  I  had  almost  lost  in  the  pit  of  my  nar- 
row personal  doubts. 

No  one  who  understands  the  nature  of  youth  will  be 
misled,  by  this  summary  of  my  intellectual  history,  into 
thinking  that  I  actually  arranged  my  newly  acquired 
scientific  knowledge  into  any  such  orderly  philosophy 
as,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  I  have  outlined  above.  I 
had  long  passed  my  teens,  and  had  seen  something  of 
life  that  is  not  revealed  to  poetizing  girls,  before  I  could 
give  any  logical  account  of  what  I  read  in  the  book  of 
cosmogony.  But  the  high  peaks  of  the  promised  land  of 
evolution  did  flash  on  my  vision  in  the  earlier  days,  and 
with  these  to  guide  me  I  rebuilt  the  world,  and  found  it 
much  nobler  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  and  took 
great  comfort  in  it. 

I  did  not  become  a  finished  philosopher  from  hearing 
a  couple  of  hundred  lectures  on  scientific  subjects.  I  did 
not  even  become  a  finished  woman.  If  anything,  I  grew 
rather  more  girlish.  I  remember  myself  as  very  merry 
in  the  midst  of  my  serious  scientific  friends,  and  I  can 
think  of  no  time  when  I  was  more  inclined  to  play  the 
tomboy  than  when  off  for  a  day  in  the  woods,  in  quest 
of  botanical  and  zoological  specimens.  The  freedom 
of  outdoors,  the  society  of  congenial  friends,  the  de- 
light of  my  occupation  —  all  acted  as  a  strong  wine  on 
my  mood,  and  sent  my  spirits  soaring  to  immoderate 
heights.  I  am  very  much  afraid  I  made  myself  a  nuis- 
ance, at  times,  to  some  of  the  more  sedate  of  my  grown- 
up companions.  I  wish  they  could  know  that  I  have 
truly  repented.  I  wish  they  had  known  at  the  time 


336  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

that  it  was  the  exuberance  of  my  happiness  that  played 
tricks,  and  no  wicked  desire  to  annoy  kind  friends.  But 
I  am  sure  that  those  who  were  offended  have  long  since 
forgotten  or  forgiven,  and  I  need  remember  nothing  of 
those  wonderful  days  other  than  that  a  new  sun  rose 
above  a  new  earth  for  me,  and  that  my  happiness  was 
like  unto  the  iridescent  dews. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   KINGDOM   IN   THE   SLUMS 

I  did  not  always  wait  for  the  Natural  History  Club 
to  guide  me  to  delectable  lands.  Some  of  the  happiest 
days  of  that  happy  time  I  spent  with  my  sister  in  East 
Boston.  We  had  a  merry  time  at  supper,  Moses  making 
clever  jokes,  without  cracking  a  smile  himself;  and  the 
baby  romping  in  his  high  chair,  eating  what  was  n't 
good  for  him.  But  the  best  of  the  evening  came  later, 
when  father  and  baby  had  gone  to  bed,  and  the  dishes 
were  put  away,  and  there  was  not  a  crumb  left  on  the 
red-and-white  checked  tablecloth.  Frieda  took  out 
her  sewing,  and  I  took  a  book;  and  the  lamp  was  be- 
tween us,  shining  on  the  table,  on  the  large  brown  roses 
on  the  wall,  on  the  green  and  brown  diamonds  of  the 
oil  cloth  on  the  floor,  on  the  baby's  rattle  on  a  shelf,  and 
on  the  shining  stove  in  the  corner.  It  was  such  a  pleas- 
ant kitchen  —  such  a  cosey,  friendly  room  —  that  when 
Frieda  and  I  were  left  alone  I  was  perfectly  happy  just 
to  sit  there.  Frieda  had  a  beautiful  parlor,  with  plush 
chairs  and  a  velvet  carpet  and  gilt  picture  frames;  but 
we  preferred  the  homely,  homelike  kitchen. 

I  read  aloud  from  Longfellow,  or  Whittier,  or  Tenny- 
son; and  it  was  as  great  a  treat  to  me  as  it  was  to 
Frieda.  Her  attention  alone  was  inspiring.  Her  delight, 
her  eager  questions  doubled  the  meaning  of  the  lines 
I  read.  Poor  Frieda  had  little  enough  time  for  read- 
ing, unless  she  stole  it  from  the  sewing  or  the  baking 
or  the  mending.  But  she  was  hungry  for  books,  and  so 


338  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

grateful  when  I  came  to  read  to  her  that  it  made  me 
ashamed  to  remember  all  the  beautiful  things  I  had 
and  did  not  share  with  her. 

It  is  true  I  shared  what  could  be  shared.  I  brought  my 
friends  to  her.  At  her  wedding  were  some  of  the  friends 
of  whom  I  was  most  proud.  Miss  Dillingham  came,  and 
Mr.  Hurd  ;  and  the  humbler  guests  stared  in  admira- 
tion at  our  school-teachers  and  editors.  But  I  had  so 
many  delightful  things  that  I  could  not  bring  to  Frieda 
—  my  walks,  my  dreams,  my  adventures  of  all  sorts. 
And  yet  when  I  told  her  about  them,  I  found  that  she 
partook  of  everything.  For  she  had  her  talent  for  vica- 
rious enjoyment,  by  means  of  which  she  entered  as  an 
actor  into  my  adventures,  was  present  as  a  witness  at 
the  frolic  of  my  younger  life.  Or  if  I  narrated  things  that 
were  beyond  her,  on  account  of  her  narrower  experience, 
she  listened  with  an  eager  longing  to  understand  that 
was  better  than  some  people's  easy  comprehension. 
My  world  ever  rang  with  good  tidings,  and  she  was 
grateful  if  I  brought  her  the  echo  of  them,  to  ring  again 
within  the  four  walls  of  the  kitchen  that  bounded  her 
life.  And  I,  who  lived  on  the  heights,  and  walked  with 
the  learned,  and  bathed  in  the  crystal  fountains  of 
youth,  sometimes  climbed  the  sublimest  peak  in  my 
sister's  humble  kitchen,  there  caught  the  unfaltering 
accents  of  inspiration,  and  rejoiced  in  silver  pools  of 
untried  happiness. 

The  way  she  reached  out  for  everything  fine  was 
shown  by  her  interest  in  the  incomprehensible  Latin 
and  French  books  that  I  brought.  She  liked  to  hear  me 
read  my  Cicero,  pleased  by  the  movement  of  the  son- 
orous periods.  I  translated  Ovid  and  Virgil  for  her;  and 
her  pleasure  illumined  the  difficult  passages,  so  that  I 


A   KINGDOM   IN   THE  SLUMS  339 

seldom  needed  to  have  recourse  to  the  dictionary.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  evening  I  read  to  her,  from  the 
"iEneid,"  the  passage  in  the  fourth  book  describing  the 
death  of  Dido.  I  read  the  Latin  first,  and  then  my  own 
version  in  English  hexameters,  that  I  had  prepared  for 
a  recitation  at  school.  Frieda  forgot  her  sewing  in  her 
lap,  and  leaned  forward  in  rapt  attention.  When  I  was 
through,  there  were  tears  of  delight  in  her  eyes;  and  I 
was  surprised  myself  at  the  beauty  of  the  words  I  had 
just  pronounced. 

I  do  not  dare  to  confess  how  much  of  my  Latin  I 
have  forgotten,  lest  any  of  the  devoted  teachers  who 
taught  me  should  learn  the  sad  truth;  but  I  shall  always 
boast  of  some  acquaintance  with  Virgil,  through  that 
scrap  of  the  "iEneid"  made  memorable  by  my  sister's 
enjoyment  of  it. 

Truly  my  education  was  not  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
persons  who  had  licenses  to  teach.  My  sister's  fat  baby 
taught  me  things  about  the  origin  and  ultimate  destiny 
of  dimples  that  were  not  in  any  of  my  school-books. 
Mr.  Casey,  of  the  second  floor,  who  was  drunk  whenever 
his  wife  was  sober,  gave  me  an  insight  into  the  psy- 
chology of  the  beer  mug  that  would  have  added  to  the 
mental  furniture  of  my  most  scholarly  teacher.  The 
bold-faced  girls  who  passed  the  evening  on  the  corner,  in 
promiscuous  flirtation  with  the  cock-eyed  youths  of  the 
neighborhood,  unconsciously  revealed  to  me  the  eternal 
secrets  of  adolescence.  My  neighbor  of  the  third  floor, 
who  sat  on  the  curbstone  with  the  scabby  baby  in  her 
bedraggled  lap,  had  things  to  say  about  the  fine  ladies 
who  came  in  carriages  to  inspect  the  public  bathhouse 
across  the  street  that  ought  to  be  repeated  in  the  lec- 
ture halls  of  every  school  of  philanthropy.  Instruction 


340  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

poured  into  my  brain  at  such  a  rate  that  I  could  not 
digest  it  all  at  the  time;  but  in  later  years,  when  my 
destiny  had  led  me  far  from  Dover  Street,  the  emphatic 
moral  of  those  lessons  became  clear.  The  memory  of  my 
experience  on  Dover  Street  became  the  strength  of 
my  convictions,  the  illumined  index  of  my  purpose,  the 
aureola  of  my  happiness.  And  if  I  paid  for  those  lessons 
with  days  of  privation  and  dread,  with  nights  of  tor- 
menting anxiety,  I  count  the  price  cheap.  Who  would 
not  go  to  a  little  trouble  to  find  out  what  life  is  made  of? 
Life  in  the  slums  spins  busily  as  a  schoolboy's  top,  and 
one  who  has  heard  its  humming  never  forgets.  I  look 
forward  to  telling,  when  I  get  to  be  a  master  of  language, 
what  I  read  in  the  crooked  cobblestones  when  I  revisited 
Dover  Street  the  other  day. 

Dover  Street  was  never  really  my  residence  —  at 
least,  not  the  whole  of  it.  It  happened  to  be  the  nook 
where  my  bed  was  made,  but  I  inhabited  the  City  of 
Boston.  In  the  pearl-misty  morning,  in  the  ruby-red 
evening,  I  was  empress  of  all  I  surveyed  from  the  roof 
of  the  tenement  house.  I  could  point  in  any  direction 
and  name  a  friend  who  would  welcome  me  there.  Off 
towards  the  northwest,  in  the  direction  of  Harvard 
Bridge,  which  some  day  I  should  cross  on  my  way  to 
Radcliffe  College,  was  one  of  my  favorite  palaces, 
whither  I  resorted  every  day  after  school. 

A  low,  wide-spreading  building  with  a  dignified 
granite  front  it  was,  flanked  on  all  sides  by  noble  old 
churches,  museums,  and  school-houses,  harmoniously 
disposed  around  a  spacious  triangle,  called  Copley 
Square.  Two  thoroughfares  that  came  straight  from  the 
green  suburbs  swept  by  my  palace,  one  on  either  side, 
converged  at  the  apex  of  the  triangle,  and  pointed  off, 


A   KINGDOM   IN   THE  SLUMS  341 

past  the  Public  Garden,  across  the  historic  Common, 
to  the  domed  State  House  sitting  on  a  height. 

It  was  my  habit  to  go  very  slowly  up  the  low,  broad 
steps  to  the  palace  entrance,  pleasing  my  eyes  with  the 
majestic  lines  of  the  building,  and  lingering  to  read 
again  the  carved  inscriptions :  Public  Library  —  Built 
by  the  People  —  Free  to  AIL 

Did  I  not  say  it  was  my  palace?  Mine,  because  I  was 
a  citizen;  mine,  though  I  was  born  an  alien;  mine, 
though  I  lived  on  Dover  Street.  My  palace  —  mine  I 

I  loved  to  lean  against  a  pillar  in  the  entrance  hall, 
watching  the  people  go  in  and  out.  Groups  of  child- 
ren hushed  their  chatter  at  the  entrance,  and  skipped, 
whispering  and  giggling  in  their  fists,  up  the  grand 
stairway,  patting  the  great  stone  lions  at  the  top,  with 
an  eye  on  the  aged  policemen  down  below.  Spectacled 
scholars  came  slowly  down  the  stairs,  loaded  with  books, 
heedless  of  the  lofty  arches  that  echoed  their  steps. 
Visitors  from  out  of  town  lingered  long  in  the  entrance 
hall,  studying  the  inscriptions  and  symbols  on  the  mar- 
ble floor.  And  I  loved  to  stand  in  the  midst  of  all  this, 
and  remind  myself  that  I  was  there,  that  I  had  a  right 
to  be  there,  that  I  was  at  home  there.  All  these  eager 
children,  all  these  fine-browed  women,  all  these  scholars 
going  home  to  write  learned  books  —  I  and  they  had 
this  glorious  thing  in  common,  this  noble  treasure  house 
of  learning.  It  was  wonderful  to  say,  This  is  mine;  it  was 
thrilling  to  say,  This  is  ours. 

I  visited  every  part  of  the  building  that  was  open 
to  the  public.  I  spent  rapt  hours  studying  the  Abbey 
pictures.  I  repeated  to  myself  lines  from  Tennyson's 
poem  before  the  glowing  scenes  of  the  Holy  Grail.  Be- 
fore the  "Prophets"  in  the  gallery  above  I  was  mute, 


342  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

but  echoes  of  the  Hebrew  Psalms  I  had  long  forgotten 
throbbed  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  my  consciousness. 
The  Chavannes  series  around  the  main  staircase  I  did 
not  enjoy  for  years.  I  thought  the  pictures  looked 
faded,  and  their  symbolism  somehow  failed  to  move  me 
at  first. 

Bates  Hall  was  the  place  where  I  spent  my  longest 
hours  in  the  library.  I  chose  a  seat  far  at  one  end,  so 
that  looking  up  from  my  books  I  would  get  the  full 
effect  of  the  vast  reading-room.  I  felt  the  grand  spaces 
under  the  soaring  arches  as  a  personal  attribute  of  my 
being. 

The  courtyard  was  my  sky-roofed  chamber  of  dreams. 
Slowly  strolling  past  the  endless  pillars  of  the  colonnade, 
the  fountain  murmured  in  my  ear  of  all  the  beautiful 
things  in  all  the  beautiful  world.  I  imagined  that  I  was 
a  Greek  of  the  classic  days,  treading  on  sandalled  feet 
through  the  glistening  marble  porticoes  of  Athens.  I 
expected  to  see,  if  I  looked  over  my  shoulder,  a  bearded 
philosopher  in  a  drooping  mantle,  surrounded  by  beau- 
tiful youths  with  wreathed  locks.  Everything  I  read  in 
school,  in  Latin  or  Greek,  everything  in  my  history 
books,  was  real  to  me  here,  in  this  courtyard  set  about 
with  stately  columns. 

Here  is  where  I  liked  to  remind  myself  of  Polotzk,  the 
better  to  bring  out  the  wonder  of  my  life.  That  I  who 
was  born  in  the  prison  of  the  Pale  should  roam  at  will 
in  the  land  of  freedom  was  a  marvel  that  it  did  me  good 
to  realize.  That  I  who  was  brought  up  to  my  teens  al- 
most without  a  book  should  be  set  down  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  books  that  ever  were  written  was  a  miracle  as 
great  as  any  on  record.  That  an  outcast  should  become 
a  privileged  citizen,  that  a  beggar  should  dwell  in  a 


A   KINGDOM   IN   THE   SLUMS  343 

palace  —  this  was  a  romance  more  thrilling  than  poet 
ever  sung.  Surely  I  was  rocked  in  an  enchanted  cradle. 

From  the  Public  Library  to  the  State  House  is  only  a 
step,  and  I  found  my  way  there  without  a  guide.  The 
State  House  was  one  of  the  places  I  could  point  to  and 
say  that  I  had  a  friend  there  to  welcome  me.  I  do  not 
mean  the  representative  of  my  district,  though  I  hope 
he  was  a  worthy  man.  My  friend  was  no  less  a  man  than 
the  Honorable  Senator  Roe,  from  Worcester,  whose 
letters  to  me,  written  under  the  embossed  letter  head 
of  the  Senate  Chamber,  I  could  not  help  exhibiting  to 
Florence  Connolly. 

How  did  I  come  by  a  Senator?  Through  being  a  citi- 
zen of  Boston,  of  course.  To  be  a  citizen  of  the  small- 
est village  in  the  United  States  which  maintains  a  free 
school  and  a  public  library  is  to  stand  in  the  path  of  the 
splendid  processions  of  opportunity.  And  as  Boston  has 
rather  better  schools  and  a  rather  finer  library  than 
some  other  villages,  it  comes  natural  there  for  children 
in  the  slums  to  summon  gentlemen  from  the  State  House 
to  be  their  personal  friends. 

It  is  so  simple,  in  Boston!  You  are  a  school-girl,  and 
your  teacher  gives  you  a  ticket  for  the  annual  histor- 
ical lecture  in  the  Old  South  Church,  on  Washington's 
Birthday.  You  hear  a  stirring  discourse  on  some  sub- 
ject in  your  country's  history,  and  you  go  home  with  a 
heart  bursting  with  patriotism.  You  sit  down  and  write 
a  letter  to  the  speaker  who  so  moved  you,  telling  him 
how  glad  you  are  to  be  an  American,  explaining  to  him, 
if  you  happen  to  be  a  recently  made  American,  why  you 
love  your  adopted  country  so  much  better  than  your 
native  land.  Perhaps  the  patriotic  lecturer  happens  to 
be  a  Senator,  and  he  reads  your  letter  under  the  vast 


344  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

dome  of  the  State  House;  and  it  occurs  to  him  that  he 
and  his  eminent  colleagues  and  the  stately  capitol  and 
the  glorious  flag  that  floats  above  it,  all  gathered  on  the 
hill  above  the  Common,  do  his  country  no  greater  honor 
than  the  outspoken  admiration  of  an  ardent  young 
alien.  The  Senator  replies  to  your  letter,  inviting  you 
to  visit  him  at  the  State  House;  and  in  the  renowned 
chamber  where  the  august  business  of  the  State  is  con- 
ducted, you,  an  obscure  child  from  the  slums,  and  he,  a 
chosen  leader  of  the  people,  seal  a  democratic  friendship 
based  on  the  love  of  a  common  flag. 

Even  simpler  than  to  meet  a  Senator  was  it  to  become 
acquainted  with  a  man  like  Edward  Everett  Hale. 
"The  Grand  Old  Man  of  Boston,"  the  people  called 
him,  from  the  manner  of  his  life  among  them.  He  kept 
open  house  in  every  public  building  in  the  city.  Where- 
ever  two  citizens  met  to  devise  a  measure  for  the  public 
weal,  he  was  a  third.  Wherever  a  worthy  cause  needed 
a  champion,  Dr.  Hale  lifted  his  mighty  voice.  At  some 
time  or  another  his  colossal  figure  towered  above  an 
eager  multitude  from  every  pulpit  in  the  city,  from  every 
lecture  platform.  And  where  is  the  map  of  Boston  that 
gives  the  names  of  the  lost  alleys  and  back  ways  where 
the  great  man  went  in  search  of  the  lame  in  body, 
who  could  not  join  the  public  assembly,  in  quest  of  the 
maimed  in  spirit,  who  feared  to  show  their  faces  in  the 
open?  If  all  the  little  children  who  have  sat  on  Dr. 
Hale's  knee  were  started  in  a  procession  on  the  State 
House  steps,  standing  four  abreast,  there  would  be  a 
lane  of  merry  faces  across  the  Common,  out  to  the 
Public  Library,  over  Harvard  Bridge,  and  away  beyond 
to  remoter  landmarks. 

That  I  met  Dr.  Hale  is  no  wonder.  It  was  as  inevit- 


A   KINGDOM   IN   THE  SLUMS  345 

able  as  that  I  should  be  a  year  older  every  twelvemonth. 
He  was  a  part  of  Boston,  as  the  salt  wave  is  a  part  of  the 
sea.  I  can  hardly  say  whether  he  came  to  me  or  I  came 
to  him.  We  met,  and  my  adopted  country  took  me  closer 
to  her  breast. 

A  day  or  two  after  our  first  meeting  I  called  on  Dr. 
Hale,  at  his  invitation.  It  was  only  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  you  may  be  sure,  because  he  had  risen  early  to 
attend  to  a  hundred  great  affairs,  and  I  had  risen  early 
so  as  to  talk  with  a  great  man  before  I  went  to  school. 
I  think  we  liked  each  other  a  little  the  more  for  the  fact 
that  when  so  many  people  were  still  asleep,  we  were 
already  busy  in  the  interests  of  citizenship  and  friend- 
ship.  We  certainly  liked  each  other. 

I  am  sure  I  did  not  stay  more  than  fifteen  minutes, 
and  all  that  I  recall  of  our  conversation  was  that  Dr. 
Hale  asked  me  a  great  many  questions  about  Russia,  in 
a  manner  that  made  me  feel  that  I  was  an  authority  on 
the  subject;  and  with  his  great  hand  in  good-bye  he 
gave  me  a  bit  of  homely  advice,  namely,  that  I  should 
never  study  before  breakfast ! 

That  was  all,  but  for  the  rest  of  the  day  I  moved 
against  a  background  of  grandeur.  There  was  a  noble 
ring  to  Virgil  that  day  that  even  my  teacher's  firm  trans- 
lation had  never  brought  out  before.  Obscure  points  in 
the  history  lesson  were  clear  to  me  alone,  of  the  thirty 
girls  in  the  class.  And  it  happened  that  the  tulips  in 
Copley  Square  opened  that  day,  and  shone  in  the  sun 
like  lighted  lamps. 

Any  one  could  be  happy  a  year  on  Dover  Street,  after 
spending  half  an  hour  on  Highland  Street.  I  enjoyed  so 
many  half-hours  in  the  great  man's  house  that  I  do  not 
know  how  to  convey  the  sense  of  my  remembered  happi- 


S46  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

ness.  My  friend  used  to  keep  me  in  conversation  a  few 
minutes,  in  the  famous  study  that  was  fit  to  have  been 
preserved  as  a  shrine;  after  which  he  sent  me  to  roam 
about  the  house,  and  explore  his  library,  and  take  away 
what  books  I  pleased.  Who  would  feel  cramped  in  a 
tenement,  with  such  royal  privileges  as  these? 

Once  I  brought  Dr.  Hale  a  present,  a  copy  of  a  story 
of  mine  that  had  been  printed  in  a  journal;  and  from  his 
manner  of  accepting  it  you  might  have  thought  that  I 
was  a  princess  dispensing  gifts  from  a  throne.  I  wish  I 
had  asked  him,  that  last  time  I  talked  with  him,  how  it 
was  that  he  who  was  so  modest  made  those  who  walked 
with  him  so  great. 

Modest  as  the  man  was  the  house  in  which  he  lived. 
A  gray  old  house  of  a  style  that  New  England  no  longer 
builds,  with  a  pillared  porch  curtained  by  vines,  set 
back  in  the  yard  behind  the  old  trees.  Whatever  cher- 
ished flowers  glowed  in  the  garden  behind  the  house,  the 
common  daisy  was  encouraged  to  bloom  in  front.  And 
was  there  sun  or  snow  on  the  ground,  the  most  timid 
hand  could  open  the  gate,  the  most  humble  visitor  was 
sure  of  a  welcome.  Out  of  that  modest  house  the 
troubled  came  comforted,  the  fallen  came  uplifted,  the 
noble  came  inspired. 

My  explorations  of  Dr.  Hale's  house  might  not  have 
brought  me  to  the  gables,  but  for  my  friend's  daughter, 
the  artist,  who  had  a  studio  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
She  asked  me  one  day  if  I  would  sit  for  a  portrait,  and 
I  consented  with  the  greatest  alacrity.  It  would  be  an 
interesting  experience,  and  interesting  experiences  were 
the  bread  of  life  to  me.  I  agreed  to  come  every  Saturday 
morning,  and  felt  that  something  was  going  to  happen 
to  Dover  Street. 


%H'  'St 


m 


?,    .' 


A  KINGDOM   IN   THE   SLUMS  347 

When  I  came  home  from  my  talk  with  Miss  Hale,  I 
studied  myself  long  in  my  blotched  looking-glass.  I 
saw  just  what  I  expected.  My  face  was  too  thin,  my 
nose  too  large,  my  complexion  too  dull.  My  hair,  which 
was  curly  enough,  was  too  short  to  be  described  as 
luxurious  tresses;  and  the  color  was  neither  brown  nor 
black.  My  hands  were  neither  white  nor  velvety;  the 
fingers  ended  decidedly,  instead  of  tapering  off  like  rosy 
dreams.  I  was  disgusted  with  my  wrists;  they  showed 
too  far  below  the  tight  sleeves  of  my  dress  of  the  year 
before  last,  and  they  looked  consumptive. 

No,  it  was  not  for  my  beauty  that  Miss  Hale  wanted 
to  paint  me.  It  was  because  I  was  a  girl,  a  person,  a 
piece  of  creation.  I  understood  perfectly.  If  I  could 
write  an  interesting  composition  about  a  broom,  why 
should  not  an  artist  be  able  to  make  an  interesting  pic- 
ture of  me?  I  had  done  it  with  the  broom,  and  the  milk 
wagon,  and  the  rain  spout.  It  was  not  what  a  thing  was 
that  made  it  interesting,  but  what  I  was  able  to  draw 
out  of  it.  It  was  exciting  to  speculate  as  to  what  Miss 
Hale  was  going  to  draw  out  of  me. 

The  first  sitting  was  indeed  exciting.  There  was 
hardly  any  sitting  to  it.  We  did  nothing  but  move 
around  the  studio,  and  move  the  easel  around,  and  try 
on  ever  so  many  backgrounds,  and  ever  so  many  poses. 
In  the  end,  of  course,  we  left  everything  just  as  it  had 
been  at  the  start,  because  Miss  Hale  had  had  the  right 
idea  from  the  beginning;  but  I  understood  that  a  pre- 
liminary tempest  in  the  studio  was  the  proper  way  to 
test  that  idea. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  that  I  should  not  be  obliged  to 
hold  my  breath,  and  should  be  allowed  to  wink  all  I 
wanted.   Posing  was  just  sitting  with  my  hands  in  my 


348  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

lap,  and  enjoying  the  most  interesting  conversation 
with  the  artist.  We  hit  upon  such  out-of-the-way  topics 
—  once,  I  remember,  we  talked  about  the  marriage  laws 
of  different  states !  I  had  a  glorious  time,  and  I  believe 
Miss  Hale  did  too.  I  watched  the  progress  of  the  por- 
trait with  utter  lack  of  comprehension,  and  with  per- 
fect faith  in  the  ultimate  result.  The  morning  flew  so 
fast  that  I  could  have  sat  right  on  into  the  afternoon 
without  tiring. 

Once  or  twice  I  stayed  to  lunch,  and  sat  opposite  the 
artist's  mother  at  table.  It  was  like  sitting  face  to  face 
with  Martha  Washington,  I  thought.  Everything  was 
wonderful  in  that  wonderful  old  house. 

One  thing  disturbed  my  enjoyment  of  those  Saturday 
mornings.  It  was  a  small  thing,  hardly  as  big  as  a  pen- 
wiper. It  was  a  silver  coin  which  Miss  Hale  gave  me 
regularly  when  I  was  going.  I  knew  that  models  were 
paid  for  sitting,  but  I  was  not  a  professional  model. 
When  people  sat  for  their  portraits  they  usually  paid 
the  artist,  instead  of  the  artist  paying  them.  Of  course 
I  had  not  ordered  this  portrait,  but  I  had  such  a  good 
time  sitting  that  it  did  not  seem  to  me  I  could  be  earning 
money.  But  what  troubled  me  was  not  the  suspicion 
that  I  did  not  earn  the  money,  but  that  I  did  not  know 
what  was  in  my  friend's  mind  when  she  gave  it  to  me. 
Was  it  possible  that  Miss  Hale  had  asked  me  to  sit  on 
purpose  to  be  able  to  pay  me,  so  that  I  could  help  pay 
the  rent?  Everybody  knew  about  the  rent  sooner  or 
later,  because  I  was  always  asking  my  friends  what  a 
girl  could  do  to  make  the  landlady  happy.  Very  possibly 
Miss  Hale  had  my  landlady  in  mind  when  she  asked 
me  to  pose.  I  might  have  asked  her  —  I  dearly  loved 
explanations,  which  cleared  up  hidden  motives  —  but 


A  KINGDOM   IN   THE  SLUMS  349 

her  answer  would  not  have  made  any  real  difference.  I 
should  have  accepted  the  money  just  the  same.  Miss 
Hale  was  not  a  stranger,  like  Mr.  Strong  when  he  offered 
me  a  quarter.  She  knew  me,  she  believed  in  my  cause, 
and  she  wanted  to  contribute  to  it.  Thus  I,  in  my  hair- 
splitting analyses  of  persons  and  motives;  while  the 
portrait  went  steadily  on. 

It  was  Miss  Hale  who  first  found  a  use  for  our  super- 
fluous baby.  She  came  to  Dover  Street  several  times  to 
study  our  tiny  Celia,  in  swaddling  clothes  improvised 
by  my  mother,  after  the  fashion  of  the  old  country. 
Miss  Hale  wanted  a  baby  for  a  picture  of  the  Nativity 
which  she  was  doing  for  her  father's  church;  and  of  all 
the  babies  in  Boston,  our  Celia,  our  little  Jewish  Celia, 
was  posing  for  the  Christ  Child !  It  does  not  matter  in 
this  connection  that  the  Infant  that  lies  in  the  lantern 
light,  brooded  over  by  the  Mother's  divine  sorrow  of 
love,  in  the  beautiful  altar  piece  in  Dr.  Hale's  church, 
was  not  actually  painted  from  my  mother's  baby,  in 
the  end.  The  point  is  that  my  mother,  in  less  than 
half  a  dozen  years  of  America,  had  so  far  shaken  off 
her  ancient  superstitions  that  she  feared  no  evil  con- 
sequence from  letting  her  child  pose  for  a  Christian 
picture. 

A  busy  life  I  led,  on  Dover  Street;  a  happy,  busy  life. 
When  I  was  not  reciting  lessons,  nor  writing  midnight 
poetry,  nor  selling  papers,  nor  posing,  nor  studying 
sociology,  nor  pickling  bugs,  nor  interviewing  statesmen, 
nor  running  away  from  home,  I  made  long  entries  in  my 
journal,  or  wrote  forty-page  letters  to  my  friends.  It 
was  a  happy  thing  that  poor  Mrs.  Hutch  did  not  know 
what  sums  I  spent  for  stationery  and  postage  stamps. 
She  would  have  gone  into  consumption,  I  do  believe, 


350  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

from  inexpressible  indignation;  and  she  would  have  been 
in  the  right  —  to  be  indignant,  not  to  go  into  consump- 
tion. I  admit  it;  she  would  have  been  justified  —  from 
her  point  of  view.  From  my  point  of  view  I  was  also  in 
the  right;  of  course  I  was.  To  make  friends  among  the 
great  was  an  important  part  of  my  education,  and  was 
not  to  be  accomplished  without  a  liberal  expenditure 
of  paper  and  postage  stamps.  If  Mrs.  Hutch  had  not 
repulsed  my  offer  of  confidences,  I  could  have  shown  her 
long  letters  written  to  me  by  people  whose  mere  signa- 
ture was  prized  by  autograph  hunters.  It  is  true  that  I 
could  not  turn  those  letters  directly  into  rent-money,  — 
or  if  I  could,  I  would  not,  —  but  indirectly  my  inter- 
esting letters  did  pay  a  week's  rent  now  and  then. 
Through  the  influence  of  my  friends  my  father  some- 
times found  work  that  he  could  not  have  got  in  any 
other  way.  These  practical  results  of  my  costly  pursuit 
of  friendships  might  have  given  Mrs.  Hutch  confidence 
in  my  ultimate  solvency,  had  she  not  remained  obstin- 
ately deaf  to  my  plea  for  time,  her  heart  being  set  on 
direct,  immediate,  convertible  cash  payment. 

That  was  very  narrow-minded,  even  though  I  say  it 
who  should  not.  The  grocer  on  Harrison  Avenue  who 
supplied  our  table  could  have  taught  her  to  take  a  more 
liberal  view.  We  were  all  anxious  to  teach  her,  if  she 
only  would  have  listened.  Here  was  this  poor  grocer, 
conducting  his  business  on  the  same  perilous  credit 
system  which  had  driven  my  father  out  of  Chelsea  and 
Wheeler  Street,  supplying  us  with  tea  and  sugar  and 
strong  butter,  milk  freely  splashed  from  rusty  cans, 
potent  yeast,  and  bananas  done  to  a  turn,  —  with 
everything,  in  short,  that  keeps  a  poor  man's  family 
hearty  in  spite  of  what  they  eat,  ■ —  and  all  this  for  the 


A  KINGDOM   IN  THE  SLUMS  351 

consideration  of  part  payment,  with  the  faintest  pro- 
spect of  a  future  settlement  in  full.  Mr.  Rosenblum 
had  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  financial  situation  of 
every  family  that  traded  with  him,  from  the  gossip  of  his 
customers  around  his  herring  barrel.  He  knew  without 
asking  that  my  father  had  no  regular  employment,  and 
that,  consequently,  it  was  risky  to  give  us  credit.  Never- 
theless he  gave  us  credit  by  the  week,  by  the  month, 
accepted  partial  payment  with  thanks,  and  let  the 
balance  stand  by  the  year. 

We  owed  him  as  much  as  the  landlady,  I  suppose, 
every  time  he  balanced  our  account.  But  he  never  com- 
plained; nay,  he  even  insisted  on  my  mother's  taking 
almonds  and  raisins  for  a  cake  for  the  holidays.  He 
knew,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Hutch,  that  my  father  kept  a 
daughter  at  school  who  was  of  age  to  be  put  to  work; 
but  so  far  was  he  from  reproaching  him  for  it  that  he 
detained  my  father  by  the  half-hour,  inquiring  about 
my  progress  and  discussing  my  future.  He  knew  very 
well,  did  the  poor  grocer,  who  it  was  that  burned  so 
much  oil  in  my  family;  but  when  I  came  in  to  have  my 
kerosene  can  filled,  he  did  not  fall  upon  me  with  harsh 
words  of  blame.  Instead,  he  wanted  to  hear  about  my 
latest  triumph  at  school,  and  about  the  great  people 
who  wrote  me  letters  and  even  came  to  see  me;  and  he 
called  his  wife  from  the  kitchen  behind  the  store  to  come 
and  hear  of  these  grand  doings.  Mrs.  Rosenblum,  who 
could  not  sign  her  name,  came  out  in  her  faded  calico 
wrapper,  and  stood  with  her  hands  folded  under  her 
apron,  shy  and  respectful  before  the  embryo  scholar; 
and  she  nodded  her  head  sideways  in  approval,  drinking 
in  with  envious  pleasure  her  husband's  Yiddish  version 
of  my  tale.  If  her  black-eyed  Goldie  happened  to  be 


352  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

playing  jackstones  on  the  curb,  Mrs.  Rosenblum  pulled 
her  into  the  store,  to  hear  what  distinction  Mr.  Antin's 
daughter  had  won  at  school,  bidding  her  take  example 
from  Mary,  if  she  would  also  go  far  in  education. 

"Hear  you,  Goldie?  She  has  the  best  marks,  in  every- 
thing, Goldie,  all  the  time.  She  is  only  five  years  in  the 
country,  and  she'll  be  in  college  soon.  She  beats  them 
all  in  school,  Goldie  —  her  father  says  she  beats  them 
all.  She  studies  all  the  time  —  all  night  —  and  she 
writes,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  hear.  She  writes  in  the  paper, 
Goldie.  You  ought  to  hear  Mr.  Antin  read  what  she 
writes  in  the  paper.  Long  pieces  — " 

"You  don't  understand  what  he  reads,  ma,"  Goldie 
interrupts  mischievously;  and  I  want  to  laugh,  but  I 
refrain.  Mr.  Rosenblum  does  not  fill  my  can;  I  am 
forced  to  stand  and  hear  myself  eulogized. 

"Not  understand?  Of  course  I  don't  understand. 
How  should  I  understand?  I  was  not  sent  to  school  to 
learn.  Of  course  I  don't  understand.  But  you  don't 
understand,  Goldie,  and  that's  a  shame.  If  you  would 
put  your  mind  on  it,  and  study  hard,  like  Mary  Antin, 
you  would  also  stand  high,  and  you  would  go  to  high 
school,  and  be  somebody." 

"Would  you  send  me  to  high  school,  pa?"  Goldie 
asks,  to  test  her  mother's  promises.  "Would  you 
really?" 

"Sure  as  I  am  a  Jew,"  Mr.  Rosenblum  promptly 
replies,  a  look  of  aspiration  in  his  deep  eyes.  "Only 
show  yourself  worthy,  Goldie,  and  I'll  keep  you  in 
school  till  you  get  to  something.  In  America  everybody 
can  get  to  something,  if  he  only  wants  to.  I  would  even 
send  you  farther  than  high  school  —  to  be  a  teacher, 
maybe.   Why  not?   In  America  everything  is  possible. 


A  KINGDOM   IN   THE  SLUMS  353 

But  you  have  to  work  hard,  Goldie,  like  Mary  Antin  — 
study  hard,  put  your  mind  on  it." 

"Oh,  I  know  it,  pa!"  Goldie  exclaims,  her  momentary 
enthusiasm  extinguished  at  the  thought  of  long  lessons 
indefinitely  prolonged.  Goldie  was  a  restless  little  thing 
who  could  not  sit  long  over  her  geography  book.  She 
wriggled  out  of  her  mother's  grasp  now,  and  made  for 
the  door,  throwing  a  "back-hand"  as  she  went,  with- 
out losing  a  single  jackstone.  "I  hate  long  lessons,"  she 
said.  "When  I  graduate  grammar  school  next  year 
I'm  going  to  work  in  Jordan-Marsh's  big  store,  and  get 
three  dollars  a  week,  and  have  lots  of  fun  with  the  girls. 
I  can't  write  pieces  in  the  paper,  anyhow.  —  Beckie! 
Beckie  Hurvich!  Where  you  going?  Wait  a  minute, 
I'll  go  along."  And  she  was  off,  leaving  her  ambitious 
parents  to  shake  their  heads  over  her  flightiness. 

Mr.  Rosenblum  gave  me  my  oil.  If  he  had  had  post- 
age stamps  in  stock,  he  would  have  given  me  all  I 
needed,  and  felt  proud  to  think  that  he  was  assisting  in 
my  important  correspondences.  And  he  was  a  poor 
man,  and  had  a  large  family,  and  many  customers  who 
paid  as  irregularly  as  we.  He  ran  the  risk  of  ruin,  of 
course,  but  he  did  not  scold  —  not  us,  at  any  rate.  For 
he  understood.  He  was  himself  an  immigrant  Jew  of  the 
type  that  values  education,  and  sets  a  great  price  on  the 
higher  development  of  the  child.  He  would  have  done 
in  my  father's  place  just  what  my  father  was  doing: 
borrow,  beg,  go  without,  run  in  debt  —  anything  to 
secure  for  a  promising  child  the  fulfilment  of  the  pro- 
mise. That  is  what  America  was  for.  The  land  of  oppor- 
tunity it  was,  but  opportunities  must  be  used,  must  be 
grasped,  held,  squeezed  dry.  To  keep  a  child  of  work- 
ing age  in  school  was  to  invest  the  meagre  present  for 


354  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

the  sake  of  the  opulent  future.  If  there  was  but  one 
child  in  a  family  of  twelve  who  promised  to  achieve  an 
intellectual  career,  the  other  eleven,  and  father,  and 
mother,  and  neighbors  must  devote  themselves  to  that 
one  child's  welfare,  and  feed  and  clothe  and  cheer  it  on, 
and  be  rewarded  in  the  end  by  hearing  its  name  men- 
tioned with  the  names  of  the  great. 

So  the  poor  grocer  helped  to  keep  me  in  school  for  I 
do  not  know  how  many  years.  And  this  is  one  of  the 
things  that  is  done  on  Harrison  Avenue,  by  the  people 
who  pitch  rubbish  through  their  windows.  Let  the  City 
Fathers  strike  the  balance. 

Of  course  this  is  wretched  economics.  If  I  had  a  son 
who  Wanted  to  go  into  the  grocery  business,  I  should 
take  care  that  he  was  well  grounded  in  the  principles  of 
sound  bookkeeping  and  prudence.  But  I  should  not  fail 
to  tell  him  the  story  of  the  Harrison  Avenue  grocer, 
hoping  that  he  would  puzzle  out  the  moral. 

Mr.  Rosenblum  himself  would  be  astonished  to  hear 
that  any  one  was  drawing  morals  from  his  manner  of 
conducting  his  little  store,  and  yet  it  is  from  men  like 
him  that  I  learn  the  true  values  of  things.  The  grocer 
weighed  me  out  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  butter,  and 
when  the  scales  were  even  he  threw  in  another  scrap. 
■' Na!"  he  said,  smiling  across  the  counter,  "you  can 
carry  that  much  around  the  corner!"  Plainly  he  was 
showing  me  that  if  I  have  not  as  many  houses  as  my 
neighbor,  that  should  not  prevent  me  from  cultivating 
as  many  graces.  If  I  made  some  shame-faced  refer- 
ence to  the  unpaid  balance,  Mr.  Rosenblum  replied, 
"  I  guess  you  're  not  thinking  of  running  away  from 
Boston  yet.  You  have  n't  finished  turning  the  libraries 
inside  out,  have  you?"  In  this  way  he  reminded  me 


A  KINGDOM   IN   THE  SLUMS  355 

that  there  were  things  more  important  than  conven- 
tional respectability.  The  world  belongs  to  those  who 
can  use  it  to  the  best  advantage,  the  grocer  seemed 
to  argue;  and  I  found  that  I  had  the  courage  to  test 
this  philosophy. 

From  my  little  room  on  Dover  Street  I  reached  out 
for  the  world,  and  the  world  came  to  me.  Through 
books,  through  the  conversation  of  noble  men  and 
women,  through  communion  with  the  stars  in  the  depth 
of  night,  I  entered  into  every  noble  chamber  of  the 
palace  of  life.  I  employed  no  charm  to  win  admittance. 
The  doors  opened  to  me  because  I  had  a  right  to  be 
within.  My  patent  of  nobility  was  the  longing  for  the 
abundance  of  life  with  which  I  was  endowed  at  birth; 
and  from  the  time  I  could  toddle  unaided  I  had  been 
gathering  into  my  hand  everything  that  was  fine  in  the 
world  around  me.  Given  health  and  standing-room,  I 
should  have  worked  out  my  salvation  even  on  a  desert 
island.  Being  set  down  in  the  garden  of  America,  where 
opportunity  waits  on  ambition,  I  was  bound  to  make  my 
days  a  triumphal  march  toward  my  goal.  The  most 
unfriendly  witness  of  my  life  will  not  venture  to  deny 
that  I  have  been  successful.  For  aside  from  subordinate 
desires  for  greatness  or  wealth  or  specific  achievement, 
my  chief  ambition  in  life  has  been  to  live,  and  I  have 
lived.  A  glowing  life  has  been  mine,  and  the  fires  that 
blazed  highest  in  all  my  days  were  kindled  on  Dover 
Street. 

I  have  never  had  a  dull  hour  in  my  life;  I  have  never 
had  a  livelier  time  than  in  the  slums.  In  all  my  troubles 
I  was  thrilled  through  and  through  with  a  prophetic 
sense  of  how  they  were  to  end.  A  halo  of  romance 
floated  before  every  to-morrow;  the  wings  of  future 


356  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

adventures  rustled  in  the  dead  of  night.  Nothing  could 
be  quite  common  that  touched  my  life,  because  I  had  a 
power  for  attracting  uncommon  things.  And  when  my 
noblest  dreams  shall  have  been  realized  I  shall  meet 
with  nothing  finer,  nothing  more  remote  from  the  com- 
monplace, than  some  of  the  things  that  came  into  my 
life  on  Dover  Street. 

Friends  came  to  me  bearing  noble  gifts  of  service, 
inspiration,  and  love.  There  came  one,  to  talk  with 
whom  was  to  double  the  volume  of  life.  She  left  roses  on 
my  pillow  when  I  lay  ill,  and  in  my  heart  she  planted  a 
longing  for  greatness  that  I  have  yet  to  satisfy.  Another 
came  whose  soul  was  steeped  in  sunshine,  whose  eyes 
saw  through  every  pretence,  whose  lips  mocked  nothing 
holy.  And  one  came  who  carried  the  golden  key  that 
unlocked  the  last  secret  chamber  of  life  for  me.  Friends 
came  trooping  from  everywhere,  and  some  were  poor, 
and  some  were  rich,  but  all  were  devoted  and  true;  and 
they  left  no  niche  in  my  heart  unfilled,  and  no  want 
unsatisfied. 

To  be  alive  in  America,  I  found  out  long  ago,  is  to  ride 
on  the  central  current  of  the  river  of  modern  life;  and 
to  have  a  conscious  purpose  is  to  hold  the  rudder  that 
steers  the  ship  of  fate.  I  was  alive  to  my  finger  tips, 
back  there  on  Dover  Street,  and  all  my  girlish  purposes 
served  one  main  purpose.  It  would  have  been  amazing 
if  I  had  stuck  in  the  mire  of  the  slum.  By  every  law  of 
my  nature  I  was  bound  to  soar  above  it,  to  attain  the 
fairer  places  that  wait  for  every  emancipated  immigrant. 
£  A  characteristic  thing  about  the  aspiring  immigrant 
is  the  fact  that  he  is  not  content  to  progress  alone. 
Solitary  success  is  imperfect  success  in  his  eyes.  He 
must  take  his  family  with  him  as  he  rises.   So  when  I 


A  KINGDOM  IN  THE  SLUMS  357 

refused  to  be  adopted  by  a  rich  old  man,  and  clung  to 
my  family  in  the  slums,  I  was  only  following  the  rule; 
and  I  can  tell  it  without  boasting,  because  it  is  no  more 
to  my  credit  than  that  I  wake  refreshed  after  a  night's 
sleep. 

This  suggests  to  me  a  summary  of  my  virtues,  through 
the  exercise  of  which  I  may  be  said  to  have  attracted  my 
good  fortune.  I  find  that  I  have  always  given  nature  a 
chance,  I  have  used  my  opportunities,  and  have  prac- 
tised self-expression.  So  much  my  enemies  will  grant 
me;  more  than  this  my  friends  cannot  claim  for  me. 

In  the  Dover  Street  days  I  did  not  philosophize  about 
my  private  character,  nor  about  the  immigrant  and  his 
ways.  I  lived  the  life,  and  the  moral  took  care  of  itself. 
And  after  Dover  Street  came  Applepie  Alley,  Letterbox 
Lane,  and  other  evil  corners  of  the  slums  of  Boston,  till 
it  must  have  looked  to  our  neighbors  as  if  we  meant  to 
go  on  forever  exploring  the  underworld.  But  we  found 
a  short-cut  —  we  found  a  short-cut !  And  the  route  we 
took  from  the  tenements  of  the  stifling  alleys  to  a  darling 
cottage  of  our  own,  where  the  sun  shines  in  at  every 
window,  and  the  green  grass  runs  up  to  our  very  door- 
step, was  surveyed  by  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  who  trans- 
scribed  their  field  notes  on  a  very  fine  parchment  and 
called  it  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

It  was  good  to  get  out  of  Dover  Street  —  it  was  better 
for  the  growing  children,  better  for  my  weary  parents, 
better  for  all  of  us,  as  the  clean  grass  is  better  than  the 
dusty  pavement.  But  I  must  never  forget  that  I  came 
away  from  Dover  Street  with  my  hands  full  of  riches.  I 
must  not  fail  to  testify  that  in  America  a  child  of  the 
slums  owns  the  land  and  all  that  is  good  in  it.  All  the 
beautiful  things  I  saw  belonged  to  me,  if  I  wanted  to 


358  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

use  them;  all  the  beautiful  things  I  desired  approached 
me.  I  did  not  need  to  seek  my  kingdom.  I  had  only  to 
be  worthy,  and  it  came  to  me,  even  on  Dover  Street. 
Everything  that  was  ever  to  happen  to  me  in  the  future 
had  its  germ  or  impulse  in  the  conditions  of  my  life 
on  Dover  Street.  My  friendships,  my  advantages  and 
disadvantages,  my  gifts,  my  habits,  my  ambitions  — 
these  were  the  materials  out  of  which  I  built  my  after 
life,  in  the  open  workshop  of  America.  My  days  in  the 
slums  were  pregnant  with  possibilities;  it  only  needed 
the  ripeness  of  events  to  make  them  fruit  forth  in 
realities.  Steadily  as  I  worked  to  win  America,  America 
advanced  to  lie  at  my  feet.  I  was  an  heir,  on  Dover 
Street,  awaiting  maturity.  I  was  a  princess  waiting  to 
be  led  to  the  throne. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   HERITAGE 

One  of  the  inherent  disadvantages  of  premature 
biography  is  that  it  cannot  go  to  the  natural  end  of  the 
story.  This  difficulty  threatened  me  in  the  beginning, 
but  now  I  find  I  do  not  need  to  tax  my  judgment  to  fix 
the  proper  stopping-place.  Sudden  qualms  of  reluct- 
ance warn  me  where  the  past  and  present  meet.  I  have 
reached  a  point  where  my  yesterdays  lie  in  a  quick  heap, 
and  I  cannot  bear  to  prod  and  turn  them  and  set  them 
up  to  be  looked  at.  For  that  matter,  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  should  add  anything  really  new,  even  if  I  could  force 
myself  to  cross  the  line  of  discretion.  I  have  already 
shown  what  a  real  thing  is  this  American  freedom  that 
we  talk  about,  and  in  what  manner  a  certain  class  of 
aliens  make  use  of  it.  Anything  that  I  might  add  of  my 
later  adventures  would  be  a  repetition,  in  substance,  of 
what  I  have  already  described.  Having  traced  the  way 
an  immigrant  child  may  take  from  the  ship  through 
the  public  schools,  passed  on  from  hand  to  hand  by  the 
ready  teachers;  through  free  libraries  and  lecture  halls, 
inspired  by  every  occasion  of  civic  consciousness;  drag- 
ging through  the  slums  the  weight  of  private  disadvan- 
tage, but  heartened  for  the  effort  by  public  opportunity; 
welcomed  at  a  hundred  open  doors  of  instruction, 
initiated  with  pomp  and  splendor  and  flags  unfurled; 
seeking,  in  American  minds,  the  American  way,  and 
finding  it  in  the  thoughts  of  the  noble,  —  striving  against 
the  odds  of  foreign  birth  and  poverty,  and  winning, 


360  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

through  the  use  of  abundant  opportunity,  a  place  as 
enviable  as  that  of  any  native  child,  —  having  traced 
the  footsteps  of  the  young  immigrant  almost  to  the 
college  gate,  the  rest  of  the  course  may  be  left  to  the 
imagination.  Let  us  say  that  from  the  Latin  School  on 
I  lived  very  much  as  my  American  schoolmates  lived, 
having  overcome  my  foreign  idiosyncrasies,  and  the 
rest  of  my  outward  adventures  you  may  read  in  any 
volume  of  American  feminine  statistics. 

But  lest  I  be  reproached  for  a  sudden  affectation  of 
reserve,  after  having  trained  my  reader  to  expect  the 
fullest  particulars,  I  am  willing  to  add  a  few  details.  I 
went  to  college,  as  I  proposed,  though  not  to  Radcliffe. 
Receiving  an  invitation  to  live  in  New  York  that  I  did 
not  like  to  refuse,  I  went  to  Barnard  College  instead. 
There  I  took  all  the  honors  that  I  deserved;  and  if  I  did 
not  learn  to  write  poetry,  as  I  once  supposed  I  should,  I 
learned  at  least  to  think  in  English  without  an  accent. 
Did  I  get  rich?  you  may  want  to  know,  remembering 
my  ambition  to  provide  for  the  family.  I  can  reply  that 
I  have  earned  enough  to  pay  Mrs.  Hutch  the  arrears, 
and  satisfy  all  my  wants.  And  where  have  I  lived  since 
I  left  the  slums?  My  favorite  abode  is  a  tent  in  the 
wilderness,  where  I  shall  be  happy  to  serve  you  a  cup  of 
tea  out  of  a  tin  kettle,  and  answer  further  questions. 

And  is  this  really  to  be  the  last  word?  Yes,  though 
a  long  chapter  of  the  romance  of  Dover  Street  is  left 
untold.  I  could  fill  another  book  with  anecdotes,  tell- 
ing how  I  took  possession  of  Beacon  Street,  and  learned 
to  distinguish  the  lord  of  the  manor  from  the  butler  in 
full  dress.  I  might  trace  my  steps  from  my  bare  room 
overlooking  the  lumber-yard  to  the  satin  drawing-rooms 
of  the  Back  Bay,  where  I  drank  afternoon  tea  with 


THE  HERITAGE  361 

gentle  ladies  whose  hands  were  as  delicate  as  their 
porcelain  cups.  My  journal  of  those  days  is  full  of  com- 
ments on  the  contrasts  of  life,  that  I  copied  from  my 
busy  thoughts  in  the  evening,  after  a  visit  to  my  aris- 
tocratic friends.  Coming  straight  from  the  cushioned  re- 
finement of  Beacon  Street,  where  the  maid  who  brought 
my  hostess  her  slippers  spoke  in  softer  accents  than  the 
finest  people  on  Dover  Street,  I  sometimes  stumbled 
over  poor  Mr.  Casey  lying  asleep  in  the  corridor;  and 
the  shock  of  the  contrast  was  like  a  searchlight  turned 
suddenly  on  my  life,  and  I  pondered  over  the  revela- 
tion, and  wrote  touching  poems,  in  which  I  figured  as 
a  heroine  of  two  worlds. 

I  might  quote  from  my  journals  and  poems,  and  build 
up  the  picture  of  that  double  life.  I  might  rehearse  the 
names  of  the  gracious  friends  who  admitted  me  to  their 
tables,  although  I  came  direct  from  the  reeking  slums. 
I  might  enumerate  the  priceless  gifts  they  showered  on 
me ;  gifts  bought  not  with  gold  but  with  love.  It  would 
be  a  pleasant  task  to  recall  the  high  things  that  passed 
in  the  gilded  drawing-rooms  over  the  afternoon  tea. 
It  would  add  a  splendor  to  my  simple  narrative  to 
weave  in  the  portraits  of  the  distinguished  men  and 
women  who  busied  themselves  with  the  humble  fortunes 
of  a  school-girl.  And  finally,  it  would  relieve  my  heart 
of  a  burden  of  gratitude  to  publish,  once  for  all,  the 
amount  of  my  indebtedness  to  the  devoted  friends  who 
took  me  by  the  hand  when  I  walked  in  the  paths  of 
obscurity,  and  led  me,  by  a  pleasanter  lane  than  I  could 
have  found  by  myself,  to  the  open  fields  where  obstacles 
thinned  and  opportunities  crowded  to  meet  me.  Out- 
side America  I  should  hardly  be  believed  if  I  told  how 
simply,  in  my  experience,  Dover  Street  merged  into  the 


362  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

Back  Bay.  These  are  matters  to  which  I  long  to  testify, 
but  I  must  wait  till  they  recede  into  the  past. 

I  can  conjure  up  no  better  symbol  of  the  genuine, 
practical  equality  of  all  our  citizens  than  the  Hale  House 
Natural  History  Club,  which  played  an  important  part 
in  my  final  emancipation  from  the  slums.  For  all  I  was 
regarded  as  a  plaything  by  the  serious  members  of  the 
club,  the  attention  and  kindness  they  lavished  on  me 
had  a  deep  significance.  Every  one  of  those  earnest  men 
and  women  unconsciously  taught  me  my  place  in  the 
Commonwealth,  as  the  potential  equal  of  the  best  of 
them.  Few  of  my  friends  in  the  club,  it  is  true,  could 
have  rightly  defined  their  benevolence  toward  me. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  thought  they  befriended  me  for 
charity's  sake,  because  I  was  a  starved  waif  from  the 
slums.  Some  of  them  imagined  they  enjoyed  my  society, 
because  I  had  much  to  say  for  myself,  and  a  gay  man- 
ner of  meeting  life.  But  all  these  were  only  secondary 
motives.  I  myself,  in  my  unclouded  perception  of  the 
true  relation  of  things  that  concerned  me,  could  have 
told  them  all  why  they  spent  their  friendship  on  me. 
They  made  way  for  me  because  I  was  their  foster  sister. 
They  opened  their  homes  to  me  that  I  might  learn  how 
good  Americans  lived.  In  the  least  of  their  attentions 
to  me,  they  cherished  the  citizen  in  the  making. 

The  Natural  History  Club  had  spent  the  day  at 
Nahant,  studying  marine  life  in  the  tide  pools,  scram- 
bling up  and  down  the  cliffs  with  no  thought  for  de- 
corum, bent  only  on  securing  the  starfish,  limpets,  sea- 
urchins,  and  other  trophies  of  the  chase.  There  had  been 
a  merry  luncheon  on  the  rocks,  with  talk  and  laughter 
between  sandwiches,  and  strange  jokes,  intelligible  only 


THE  HERITAGE  363 

to  the  practising  naturalist.  The  tide  had  rushed  in  at 
its  proper  time,  stealing  away  our  seaweed  cushions, 
drowning  our  transparent  pools,  spouting  in  the  crevices, 
booming  and  hissing,  and  tossing  high  the  snowy  foam. 

From  the  deck  of  the  jolly  excursion  steamer  which 
was  carrying  us  home,  we  had  watched  the  rosy  sun  dip 
down  below  the  sea.  The  members  of  the  club,  grouped 
in  twos  and  threes,  discussed  the  day's  successes,  com- 
pared specimens,  exchanged  field  notes,  or  watched  the 
western  horizon  in  sympathetic  silence. 

It  had  been  a  great  day  for  me.  I  had  seen  a  dozen 
new  forms  of  life,  had  caught  a  hundred  fragments  of 
the  song  of  nature  by  the  sea;  and  my  mind  was  seething 
with  meanings  that  crowded  in.  I  do  not  remember  to 
which  of  my  learned  friends  I  addressed  my  questions  on 
this  occasion,  but  he  surely  was  one  of  the  most  learned. 
For  he  took  up  all  my  fragments  of  dawning  knowledge 
in  his  discourse,  and  welded  them  into  a  solid  structure 
of  wisdom,  with  windows  looking  far  down  the  past  and 
a  tower  overlooking  the  future.  I  was  so  absorbed  in  my 
private  review  of  creation  that  I  hardly  realized  when 
we  landed,  or  how  we  got  into  the  electric  cars,  till  we 
were  a  good  way  into  the  city. 

At  the  Public  Library  I  parted  from  my  friends,  and 
stood  on  the  broad  stone  steps,  my  jar  of  specimens  in 
my  hand,  watching  the  car  that  carried  them  glide  out 
of  sight.  My  heart  was  full  of  a  stirring  wonder.  I  was 
hardly  conscious  of  the  place  where  I  stood,  or  of  the 
day,  or  the  hour.  I  was  in  a  dream,  and  the  familiar 
world  around  me  was  transfigured.  My  hair  was  damp 
with  sea  spray;  the  roar  of  the  tide  was  still  in  my  ears. 
Mighty  thoughts  surged  through  my  dreams,  and  I 
trembled  with  understanding. 


364  THE  PROMISED  LAND 

*  I  sank  down  on  the  granite  ledge  beside  the  entrance 
to  the  Library,  and  for  a  mere  moment  I  covered  my 
eyes  with  my  hand.  In  that  moment  I  had  a  vision  of 
myself,  the  human  creature,  emerging  from  the  dim 
places  where  the  torch  of  history  has  never  been,  creep- 
ing slowly  into  the  light  of  civilized  existence,  pushing 
more  steadily  forward  to  the  broad  plateau  of  modern 
life,  and  leaping,  at  last,  strong  and  glad,  to  the  intel- 
lectual summit  of  the  latest  century. 

What  an  awful  stretch  of  years  to  contemplate !  What 
a  weighty  past  to  carry  in  memory !  How  shall  I  num- 
ber the  days  of  my  life,  except  by  the  stars  of  the  night, 
except  by  the  salt  drops  of  the  sea? 

But  hark  to  the  clamor  of  the  city  all  about!  This  is 
my  latest  home,  and  it  invites  me  to  a  glad  new  life. 
The  endless  ages  have  indeed  -throbbed  through  my 
blood,  but  a  new  rhythm  dances  in  my  veins.  My  spirit 
is  not  tied  to  the  monumental  past,  any  more  than  my 
feet  were  bound  to  my  grandfather's  house  below  the 
hill.  The  past  was  only  my  cradle,  and  now  it  cannot 
hold  me,  because  I  am  grown  too  big;  just  as  the  little 
house  in  Polotzk,  once  my  home,  has  now  become  a  toy 
of  memory,  as  I  move  about  at  will  in  the  wide  spaces  of 
this  splendid  palace,  whose  shadow  covers  acres.  No! 
it  is  not  I  that  belong  to  the  past,  but  the  past  that 
belongs  to  me.  America  is  the  youngest  of  the  nations, 
and  inherits  all  that  went  before  in  history.  And  I  am 
the  youngest  of  America's  children,  and  into  my  hands 
is  given  all  her  priceless  heritage,  to  the  last  white  star 
espied  through  the  telescope,  to  the  last  great  thought 
of  the  philosopher.  Mine  is  the  whole  majestic  past, 
and  mine  is  the  shining  future. 


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

To  my  mother  who  bore  me;  to  my  father 
who  endowed  me  ;  to  my  brothers  and  sisters 
who  believed  in  me;  to  my  friends  who  loved 
me;  to  my  teachers  who  inspired  me;  to  my 
neighbors  who  befriended  me;  to  my  daugh- 
ter who  enlarged  me  ;  to  my  husband  who 
opened  the  door  of  the  greater  life  for  me; 
—  to  all  these  who  helped  to  make  this  booh, 
I  give  my  thanks. 


GLOSSARY 

KEY   TO   PRONUNCIATION 


a  as  in  man 

u  as  in  circus 

S  "    "  far 

u  "    "  mute 

e  "   "  met 

u  "    "  pull 

6  "    "meet 

ai  "   "  aisle 

8  "  long  e  in  German  Leder 

oi  "  "  joint 

i   "  in  pin 

ch  "  "  German  ach,  Scotch  loch 

I   "  "  file 

h  ■■ "      "      "      "      •: 

o  "  "  not 

1     '«  "  failure 

5  "  "  note 

fi    "  " canon 

6  "  "  German  K6nig 

zh  "  z  in  seizure. 

Explanations 

The  abbreviations  Germ.  (=  German) ,  Hebr.  (=  Hebrew),  Russ.  (=  Russian),  and 
Yid.  (=  Yiddish)  indicate  the  origin  of  a  word.  Most  of  the  names  marked  Yiddish  are 
such  in  form  only,  the  roots  being  for  the  most  part  Hebrew. 

Prop.  n.  =  proper  name. 

The  endings  he  and  le  of  Yiddish  proper  names  (Mashke,  Perele)  have  a  diminutive  or 
endearing  value,  like  the  German  chen  (Helenchen) 

Double  names  are  given  under  the  first  name. 

The  religious  customs  described  prevail  among  the  Orthodox  Jews  of  European 
countries.  In  the  United  States  they  have  been  considerably  modified,  especially  among 
the  Reformed  Jews. 

Ab  (ab),  Hebr.  The  fifth,  month  of  the  Hebrew  calendar.  The  ninth  of 
Ab  is  a  day  of  fasting  and  mourning,  in  commemoration  of  the  de- 
struction of  Jerusalem  and  the  Temple. 

Adonai  (a-do-nai'),  Hebr.   An  appellation  of  God. 

Aleph  (a'-lef),  Hebr.  The  first  letter  of  the  Hebrew  alphabet. 

Atonement,  Day  of  (Hebrew,  Yom  Kippur).  The  most  solemn  of  the 
Hebrew  festivals,  observed  by  fasting  and  an  elaborate  ceremonial. 

Bahur  (ba'-hur),  Hebr.  A  young  unmarried  man,  particularly  a  student 

of  the  Talmud.    (See   Yeshibah  bahur.) 
Berl  (berl),   Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Cabala  (kab-a'-la),  Hebr.  A  system  of  Hebrew  mystic  philosophy  which 

flourished  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
Candle   Prayer   (Yiddish,   licht  bentscheri) .    Prayer  pronounced  over 

lighted  candles  by  the  women  and  older  girls  of  the  household  at  the 

commencement  of  the  Sabbath. 
Canopy,  wedding  (Hebrew  huppah).  A  portable  canopy  under  which  the 

marriage  ceremony  is  performed,  usually  outdoors.    - 


368  GLOSSARY 

Cossaks  (kos'-aks),  Russ.  A  name  given  to  certain  Russian  tribes,  for- 
merly distinguished  for  their  freebooting  habits,  now  best  known  for 
their  position  in  the  army. 

Dayyan  (dai'-an),  Hebr.  A  judge  to  whom  are  submitted  civil  disputes, 
as  distinguished  from  purely  religious  questions,  which  are  decided  by 
the  Rav. 

Dinke  (din'-ke),   Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Dvina  (dve'-na),  Russ.   Name  of  a  river. 

Dvornik  (dvor'-nik),  Russ.  An  outdoor  man;  a  choreman. 

Dvoshe  (dvo'-she),   Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Earlocks  (Hebrew  peath).  Two  locks  of  hair  allowed  to  grow  long  and 
hang  in  front  of  the  ears.  Among  the  fanatical  Hasidim,  a  mark  of 
piety. 

Eidtkuhnen  (eit-koo'-nen),  Germ.  Name  of  a  Russo-German  frontier 
town. 

Fetchke  (fetch'-ke),   Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Fringes,  sacred  (Hebrew  zizit).  Specially  prepared  fringes  fastened  to  the 
four  corners  of  the  arba  kanfot  (literally,  "  four-corners  "),  a  garment 
1  worn  by  all  pious  males  underneath  the  jacket  or  frock  coat,  usually 
with  the  fringes  showing.  The  latter  play  a  part  in  the  daily  ritual. 

Goluth  (gor-iit),  Hebr.  Banishment;  exile. 

Good  Jew  (Yiddish  guter  id).  Among  the  Hasidim,  a  title  popularly 
accorded  to  more  or  less  learned  individuals  distinguished  for  their 
,  piety,  and  credited  with  supernatural  powers  of  healing,  divination, 
'  etc.  Pilgrimages  to  some  renowned  "  Good  Jew  "  were  often  under- 
taken by  the  very  pious,  on  occasions  of  perplexity  or  trouble,  for  the 
purpose  of  obtaining  his  advice  or  help. 

Groschen  (gro'-shen),  Germ.  A  popular  name  for  various  coins  of  small 
denomination,  expecially  the  half-kopeck. 

Gutke  (gut'-ke),  Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Hannah  Hayye  (han'-a  hai'-e),  Hebr.  Prop.  n. 

Hasid,  pi.  Hasidim  (has'-id,  has-id'-im),  Hebr.   A  numerous  sect  of  Jews 

u   distinguished  for  their  enthusiasm  in  religious  observance,  a  fanatical 

worship  of  their  rabbis  and  many  superstitious  practices. 
Haveh  Mirel  (ha'-ve  mirl),  Hebr.  and  Yid.  Prop.  n. 
Hayye  Dvoshe  (hai'-e  dvo'-she),  Hebr.  and  Yid.  Prop.  n. 
Hayyim  (hai'-im),  Hebr.   Prop.  n. 
Hazzan  (haz-an),  Hebr.   Cantor  in  a  synagogue. 


GLOSSARY  369 

Heder  (he'-der),  Eebr.  Elementary  Hebrew  school,  usually  held  at  the 
teacher's  residence. 

Henne  Rosel  (he'-ne  rozl),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Hirshel  (hir'-shl),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Hode  (ho'-de),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Horn,  ram's  (Hebrew  shofar).  Ritual  horn,  used  in  the  synagogue  during 
the  great  festivals. 

Hossen  (ho'-ssn),  Hebr.  Bridegroom  ;  prospective  bridegroom ;  be- 
trothed. 

Humesh  (hii'-mesh),  Hebr.  The  Pentateuch. 

Icon  (l'-kon),  Russ.    A  representation  of  Christ  or  some  saint,  usually  in 

an  elaborate  frame,  found  in  every  orthodox  Russian  house. 
Itke  (it'-ke),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Jew,  Good.    See  under  Good. 

Kibart  (ki-bart'),  Russ.   Name  of  a  town. 

Kiddush  (kid'-ush),   Hebr.    Benediction  pronounced  over  a  cup  of  wine 

before  the  Sabbath  evening  meal. 
Kimanye  (ki-ma'-ne),  Russ.   Name  of  a  village. 
Kimanyer  (ki-ma'-fier),  Yid.     Belonging  to  or  hailing  from  the  village 

of  Kimanye. 
Knupf  (kniipf),    Yid.   A  sort  of  turban. 
Kopeck  (ko'-pek),  Russ.    A  copper  coin,  the  y^  part  of  a  ruble,  worth 

about  half  a  cent. 
Kopistch  (ko'-pistch),  Russ.   Name  of  a  town. 
Kosher  (ko'-sher),  Hebr.   Clean,  according  to  Jewish  ritual  law;  opposed 

to  tref,  unclean.    Applied  chiefly  to  articles  of  diet  and  cooking  and 

eating  vessels. 

Lamden  (lam'-den),  Hebr.  Scholar;  one  versed  in  Hebrew  learning. 

Law,  the  (specifically  used).  The  Mosaic  Law;  the  Torah. 

Lebe  (le'-be),   Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Loaf,  Sabbath.  See  under  Sabbath. 

Lozhe  (lo'-zhe),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Lubavitch  (lu-bav'-itch),  Russ.   Name  of  a  town. 

Maryashe  (mar-ya'-she),   Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Mashinke  (ma'-shin-ke),   Yid.   A  diminutive  of  Mashke. 

Mashke  (mash'-ke),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Mendele  (men'-del-e),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Mezuzah  (me-zii'-za),   Hebr.  A  piece  of  parchment  inscribed  with  a  pas- 


370  GLOSSARY 

sage  of  Scripture,  rolled  in  a  case  and  tacked  to  the  doorpost.    The 

pious  touch  or  kiss  this  when  leaving  or  entering  a  house. 
Mikweh  (mik'-we),  Hebr.   Ritual  bath,  constructed  and  used  according 

to  minute  directions. 
Mirele  (mir'-e-le),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 
Mishka  (mish'-ka),  Russ.    Prop.  n. 
Moon,  blessing  of.  Benediction  pronounced  at  the  appearance  of  the  new 

moon. 
Moshe  (mo'-she),    Yid.  Prop,  n.,  a  form  of  Moses. 
Moshele  (mo'-she-Ie),    Yid.   Prop,  n.,  diminutive  of  Moshe. 
Mulke  (mul'-ke),   Yid.  Prop,  n.,  diminutive  of  Mulye. 
Mulye  (mul'-e),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Na!  (na),    Yid.   Here  you  are!   Take  it ! 
Nohem  (no'-hem),  Hebr.   Prop.  n. 
Nu,  nu !  (nu,  mi),   Yid.  Well,  well. 

Oi,  weh!  (oi,  ve),    Yid.  Woe  is  me  ! 

Oven,  sealing  of.  As  no  fire  is  kindled  on  the  Sabbath,  the  Sabbath 
dinner  is  cooked  on  Friday  afternoon  and  left  in  the  brick  oven  over- 
night. The  oven  is  tightly  closed  with  a  board  or  sheet  of  metal,  wet 
rags  being  stuffed  into  the  interstices. 

Passover  (Hebrew,  pesech).  The  feast  of  Unleavened  Bread,  commem- 
orating the  escape  of  the  Israelites  from  Egypt. 

Passport,  foreign.  A  special  passport  required  of  any  Russian  subject 
wishing  to  go  to  a  foreign  country.  To  avoid  the  necessity  of  procuring 
such  a  passport,  travellers  often  cross  the  border  by  stealth. 

Perele  (per'-e-le),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Phylacteries  (fi-lak'-ter-is;  Hebrew  tefilliri).  Two  small  leathern  boxes 
containing  parchments  inscribed  with  certain  passages  of  Scripture, 
worn  during  morning  prayer,  one  on  the  forehead  and  one  on  the  left 
arm,  where  they  are  fastened  by  means  of  straps,  in  a  manner  carefully 
prescribed.  The  wearing  of  the  tefillin  is  obligatory  on  all  males  over 
thirteen  years  of  age  (the  age  of  confirmation). 

Pinchus  (pin'-chus),  Hebr.   Prop.  n. 

Pogrom  (po-grom'),  Russ.   An  organized  massacre  of  Jews. 

Poll  (pol),  Yid.  A  series  of  steps  in  the  bathing-room,  where  cupping, 
etc.,  is  done  under  a  high  temperature. 

Polota  (Po-lo-ta/),  Russ.   Name  of  a  river. 

Polotzk  (po'-lotzk),  Russ.,  also  spelled  Polotsk.  A  town  in  the  govern- 
ment of  Vitebsk,  Russia,  since  early  times  a  stronghold  of  Jewish 
orthodoxy.    N.  B.    Polotzk  must  not  be  confused  with  Plotzk  (also 


GLOSSARY  S71 

spelled  Plock),  the  capital  of  the  government  of  Plotzk,  in  Russian 
Poland,  about  400  miles  southwest  of  Polotzk. 

Praying  Shawl  (Hebrew,  tallit).  A  fine  white  woollen  shawl  with  sacred 
fringes  (zizit),  in  the  four  corners,  worn  by  males  after  marriage,  during 
certain  devotional  exercises. 

Purim  (pu'-rim),  Hebr.  A  feast  in  commemoration  of  the  deliverance  of 
the  Persian  Jews,  through  the  intervention  of  Esther,  from  the  mas- 
sacre planned  by  Haman.  Masquerading,  feasting,  exchange  of  pre- 
sents, and  general  license  make  this  celebration  the  j  oiliest  of  the 
Jewish  year. 

Questions,  the  Four.  At  the  Passover  feast,  the  youngest  son  (or,  in 
the  absence  of  a  son  of  suitable  age,  a  daughter)  asks  four  questions  as  to 
the  significance  of  various  symbolic  articles  used  in  the  ceremonial,  in  reply 
to  which  the  family  read  the  story  of  Exodus. 

Rabbi  (rab'-i),  Hebr.   A  title  accorded  to  men  distinguished  for  learning 

and  authorized  to  teach  the  Law.  As  used  in  the  present  work,  rabbi  is 

identical  with  the  official  title  of  rav,  which  see. 
Rabbonim  (rab-on'-im),  Hebr.   Plural  of  rabbi. 
Rav  (rav),    Hebr.    The  spiritual  head  of  a  Jewish  community,  whose 

duties  include  the  settlement  of  ritualistic  questions. 
Reb*  (reb),    Yid.    An  abbreviation  of  rebbe,  used  as  a  title  of  respect, 

equivalent  to  the  old-fashioned  English  "  master." 
Rebbe   (reb'-e),     Yid.    Colloquial  form  of  rabbi.    A  Hebrew  teacher. 

Applied  usually  to  teachers  of  lesser  rank;  also  used  as  a  title  for  a 

"  Good  Jew  ";  as,  the  Rebbe  of  Kopistch. 
Rebbetzin  (reb'-e-tzin),    Yid.   Female  Hebrew  teacher. 
Riga  (ri'-ga),  Russ.   Name  of  a  city. 
Ruble  (ru'-bl),  Russ.   The  monetary  unit  of  Russia.    A  silver  coin  (or, 

more  commonly,  a  paper  bill)  worth  a  little  over  fifty  cents. 

Sabbath  Loaf  (Hebrew,  hallah).  A  wheaten  loaf  of  peculiar  shape  used 
in  the  Sabbath  ceremonial. 

Sacred  Fringes.   See  under  Fringes. 

Shadchan  (shad'-chan),  Hebr.  Professional  match-maker ;  marriage 
broker. 

Shawl,  Praying.   See  under  Praying. 

Shema  (shma),  Hebr.  The  verse  recited  as  the  Jewish  confession  of  faith 
("  Hear,  O  Israel,  the  Lord  our  God,  the  Lord  is  One  ");  so  called  from 
the  initial  word.  The  "  Shema  "  recurs  constantly  in  the  daily  ritual, 
and  is  informally  repeated  on  every  occasion  of  distress,  or  as  a  charm 
to  ward  off  evil  influences. 


372  GLOSSARY 

Shohat  (sho'-hat),  Hebr.  Slaughterer  of  cattle  according  to  ritual 
law. 

Succoth  (su'-kot),  Hebr.  The  feast  of  Tabernacles,  celebrated  with  many 
symbolic  rites,  among  these  being  the  eating  of  the  festive  meals 
outdoors,  in  a  booth  or  bower  of  lattice  work  covered  with  ever- 
greens. 

Talakno  (tal-ak-no'),  Russ.  Meal  made  of  ground  oats,  often  mixed 
with  other  grains  or  with  weeds.  An  important  article  of  diet 
among  the  peasants,  generally  moistened  with  cold  water  and  eaten 
raw. 

Talmudists  (tal'-miid-ists;  from  Hebrew  talmud).  The  compilers  of  the 
Talmud  (the  body  of  Jewish  traditional  lore);  scholars  versed  in  the 
teachings  of  the  Talmud. 

Tav  (tav),  Hebr.  The  last  letter  of  the  Hebrew  alphabet. 

Torah  (to'-ra),  Hebr.  The  Mosaic  Law;  the  book  or  scroll  of  the  Law; 
sacred  learning. 

Trefah  (tref'-a),  Hebr.  Unclean,  according  to  ritual  law;  opposed  to 
kosher,  clean.  Chiefly  applied  to  articles  of  food  and  eating  and  cook- 
ing vessels. 

Versbolovo  (vers-bo-lo'-va),  Russ.  Name  of  a  town. 

Verst  (vyerst),  Russ.  A  measure  of  length,  about  two-thirds  of  an 
English  mile, 

Vilna  (vil'-na),  Russ.   Name  of  a  city. 

Vitebsk  (vi'-tebsk),  Russ.  Name  of  a  city. 

Vodka  (vod'-ka),  Russ.  A  kind  of  whiskey  distilled  from  barley  or  from 
potatoes,  constantly  indulged  in  by  the  lower  classes  in  Russia,  espe- 
cially by  the  peasants. 

Wedding  Canopy.  See  under  Canopy. 

Yachne  (Yach'-ne),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Yakub  (ya-kub'),  Russ.   Prop.  n. 

Yankel  (yan'-kl),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Yeshibah  (ye-shib'-a),  Hebr.  Rabbinical  school  or  seminary. 

Bachur,  a  student  in  a  yeshibah. 

Yiddish  (yid'-ish),  Yid.  Judeo-German,  the  language  of  the  Jews  of 
Eastern  Europe.  The  basis  is  an  archaic  form  of  German,  on  which  are 
grafted  many  words  of  Hebrew  origin,  and  words  from  the  vernacular 
of  the  country. 

Yochem  (yo'-chem),   Yid.  Prop.  n. 

Yuchovitch  (yii-chov-itch'),  Russ.   Name  of  a  village. 


GLOSSARY  373 

Zaddik  (tza'-dik),  Hebr.   A  man  of  piety;  a  holy  man. 

Zalmen  (zal'-men),    Yid.   Prop.  n. 

Zimbler   (tzim'-bler),    Yid.   A  performer  on  the  zimble,  an  instrument 

constructed  like  a  wooden   tray,  with    several  wires  stretched  across 

lengthwise,  and  played  by  means  of  two  short  rods. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    o    S    .    A 


DATE  DUE 

AMf*        ' 

i    ^ftft** 

41 

ll       I    1      !00° 

AUU  "  ' 

i  ZDBZ 

Jl 

)£ 

JUN  1  §2 

002 

JAN   1  S 

2003 

JAN  1  g ; 

004 

=  , 

*C)C\] ) 

JUL   2  7 

lUUU 

OCT  -  5 

Wi 

LUUV 

!AW    I  K 

Qftfft 

JAfcs    1  " 

£yU3 

201-5503 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3  9031  01062188  6 


